The Road Less Traveled
by Gryvon
Summary: Stiles doesn't want to die in a basement. No one is going to die in the Argent's basement, not if he can help it.
1. Chapter 1

"What are you, ninety? I can probably kick your ass up and down this room."

Famous last words. It's a bit humiliating that all it takes is a single slap to send him to the floor, but damn, Gerard Argent has one hell of a pimp hand on him. The man could be ruling the street corners, but instead he's all about killing Stiles's friends and not-quite-friends.

Gerard doesn't just stop with one slap, though that had been enough to prove that no, Stiles cannot kick his ass. Stiles can't even get off the floor before Gerard is punching him and it's like his entire high school career of thankfully not getting beat up by the cool kids is being corrected right now. Gerard is surprisingly strong for a grandfather and Stiles is surprisingly weak. He can't even fight back.

Stiles has never been good with pain. As much as he spews bravado all the time, now that he's actually in a fight—one-sided at best—he can't do anything. The noises of the basement—the sound of Gerard's fist hitting his flesh, Erica's muffled words, the creak of the ceiling as the werewolves struggle against their bonds—fade away, replaced by loud ringing that seems to take up all the space inside his head, leaving room for nothing else.

He remembers what Gerard said about Scott finding his body. Stiles can picture the scene all too easily but it's not Scott that he worries about. If Stiles dies, Scott will be devastated but not as much as it will devastate Stiles's father. His poor father's about to lose the only family he has left. All of the lies Stiles has been telling him will mean so much more when his father finds his body.

"You should have known better than to run with wolves," Gerard croaks, in a way that sounds entirely deranged. Stiles is starting to get the whole unhinged hunter picture. It's amazing how clear that becomes when he's bleeding on the Argent's basement floor.

"Stop," Stiles begs. He's not above begging, even with Erica and Boyd watching. They've never given two shits about him, so he shouldn't care what they think but part of him does because he cares what Derek thinks and they're connected to Derek.

"Tell me where Derek is."

"What?" Stiles blinks up at the ceiling. Since when had this been about Derek?

Gerard's hand closes around Stiles's neck, squeezing tight. "Derek Hale. His wolves wouldn't give him up but you will."

Stiles glances over at Erica and Boyd then. Erica's eyes plead with him not to tell. It's unnecessary. While he and Derek might not be friends, Stiles desperately wants to be. If he's honest with himself, and what better time for self-honesty than when he's getting the crap kicked out of him by his best friend's girlfriend's grandfather, he wants to be much more than friends but that will never happen. He'll settle for being part of the pack, if a somewhat useless part.

He's not going to be useless now. He doesn't know what Gerard wants with Derek. Probably to murder him for revenge after Kate and Mrs. Argent's deaths. Whatever Gerard wants, it won't be good and Stiles isn't going to give it to him.

"No."

He expects the punch that follows. He doesn't expect Gerard to stand up after and kick Stiles in the chest. Stiles bites back a scream. He bites his lip so hard he draws blood but that's better than letting any words come out.

"Tell me where the Alpha is."

He curls around his stomach as Gerard lands another solid kick there. He almost blurts out the address of the warehouse Derek has been squatting in, but he manages to change the words before they leave his mouth. "Narnia."

Gerard doesn't find that funny. He steps on Stiles' hand, crushing Stiles's fingers between the cement and his thick boot. It only gets Gerard another stupid answer.

"The Tardis."

He's bleeding. Stiles spits blood from his mouth and he knows that's a bad sign. Erica's screaming against the tape on her mouth. He's not sure if she's trying to tell him to give in or hold on. Either way, her frantic twisting against the wires around her wrist does nothing except add the smell of more blood to the stale basement air.

"Tell me!"

"Motherfucking Oz."

Gerard's foot comes down on Stiles's leg and that's the end of his stupid answers. There's a sickening crack. He doesn't scream. He's in too much pain to scream. His last thought before the world goes black is that this is such a pathetic way to die.

* * *

Stiles wakes up wishing he were dead. Thankfully he is not but he hurts so much that he thinks he's halfway there. That's what Gerard had wanted after all. Stiles is supposed to be dead, left in a ditch for Scott to find. He wonders if the fact that he's not is an oversight or purposeful.

The basement floor is cold and caked in blood. Some of it is still fresh. It's all his. He shifts, moving only a fraction of an inch but it's enough to force out the barest of groans. The sound gets someone's attention. He turns his head slowly and meets Erica's eyes, then Boyd's. There are fresh tears in Erica's eyes. He can't tell if they're tears for him or from the electricity coursing through her system. What must she think of him now? Is she proud that he stayed loyal and didn't give up Derek or disgusted with how weak he is?

He knows one thing—he can't leave them here to die. They need to escape and stop whatever it is that Gerard's planning. Stiles doesn't think he's making it out of the basement, at least not without a stretcher, but at least if he can get them free, they can bust loose and help Derek.

He doesn't want to die in a basement. No one is going to die in this basement, not if he can help it.

Stiles tries to stand up and immediately regrets it. Pain hits him like a truck the second he tries to get his right leg under him. It knocks him flat and he wakes up what he hopes is only a few minutes later with his face mashed into the floor.

Well, he knows better than to try that again. There's something wrong with his leg. He shifts slowly to stare down the length of his body at it but he can't see much from this angle. His right leg hurts insanely bad but it also feels like the pain is distant, like there's too much pain for his body to even process. It's hard for him to breathe or move the fingers of his left hand. That means something bad but he has bigger problems right now, namely the fact that he's on the floor and the source of all the electricity running through Erica and Boyd is across the room.

He crawls. It's probably one of the most undignified looking things he's ever done but Erica and Boyd have already seen him at some of his weakest points. He doesn't have much dignity left. What he does have is an insane sense of loyalty and right now all he can think about is getting them all out of the basement and saving Derek.

That's enough to worry about for the time being.

He slides slowly across the floor, pulling himself one arm at a time. He kicks a bit with his left leg but it doesn't do much. Thank God for lacrosse and all the upper arm strength it's forced him to acquire.

The controls may as well have been miles away. He's wheezing by the time he makes it to the table, long past the stages of panting, whimpering, and crying. He's pretty sure he's left a trail of blood behind him and it makes him feel like a mutant slug.

His fingers reach for the edge of the table. He has to roll onto his side and stretch up painfully. His entire chest feels like it's on fire but it's worth it for the brief flash of victory as his fingers close around the edge of the table.

Then he screams. He has no choice. Electric current burns through him and he yanks his hand away, curling around it with a choked sob.

Is that what Erica and Boyd were feeling? All this time?

There's noise from upstairs. Someone heard him. He curses and forces himself back on his side. There's nothing around for him to use to block the current. He briefly thinks about wadding up the thin fabric of his jersey but then the door opens and there's no time left. He grabs the table, clenching his teeth to hold in the pain and then pulls himself up. He has no idea how he does it, no idea why he doesn't just crumple to the floor sobbing—again—but he makes it. He has to use his injured hand to brace himself. He's crying from the pain and his good hand shakes as he reaches forward, stretching toward the controls. His fingers brush against the knobs.

"Stiles?"

His hand slips, throwing him off balance. He thinks he cries out as his fingers fall away from the controls. He definitely does when he hits the floor. Pain knifes through him, stabbing at his chest, his arm, and his leg.

Footsteps echo on the cement floor and then there's a hand on his shoulder, rolling him.

"What the hell?"

If he could talk, he'd probably echo the sentiment. His vision is a little blurry as he stares up at Chris Argent, who looks just as surprised to see Stiles as Stiles is to see him. Probably more surprised since this is Chris's house and Stiles had a vague idea that Chris might be here.

"Who did this? What happened?"

Stiles laughs. He can't help it. The sound just bubbles out of his chest. "Ask your dad." His voice is hoarse and unsteady but he manages to get the words out. They cause even more confusion to cross Chris's face.

Then Chris's arms are coming under him and Stiles doesn't understand what's going on until Chris starts to lift him. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"No." Stiles shoves hard at Chris's chest, sending himself tumbling back to the floor. It hurts and Chris is looking at him like he's crazy. So are Erica and Boyd but dammit he'd made himself a promise. No one's going to die down here. "Not without them."

Erica and Boyd are definitely looking at him like he's crazy now. Chris reaches for Stiles again and Stiles pushes himself away. He doesn't go far, but it makes his point.

"Alright." Chris stands then and flips the switch, shutting off the electricity like it's nothing, like he hadn't just betrayed his own father with one turn of the wrist. He looks down at Stiles for a second before stepping up to Erica and untying her bonds.

"There was a time once when Argents would think twice about going after underage werewolves," Chris says. It doesn't sound like he's talking to Stiles. It doesn't sound like he's talking to any of them. "When we wouldn't beat a child." Erica drops to the floor. Instead of running for the door she moves to Stiles, crouching next to him with a strange look on her face. She slips a deceptively strong arm under his shoulders. "Over the years the lines got blurred. The division between monster and man isn't so clear anymore."

He gets what Chris is saying. He really does, and the ramifications of his words go far beyond the basement or even this house. Chris's allegiances aren't as solid as they once were and maybe, if Gerard weren't here, they'd have a chance to work something out.

All of that is a conversation for later though. Stiles's head swims as Boyd comes to his other side and he's lifted onto his feet. He's vaguely aware of Chris saying "Come with me" and then everything after that is a blur.

* * *

The bright lights of the hospital focus him, at least a little bit. The sudden noise helps. Chris isn't with them. He left them at the side entrance, near the morgue, but Erica and Boyd are still with him. They haven't left his side the whole way here, crowding him between them in the back of Chris's SUV while he faded in and out of consciousness. He'd babbled something about Derek, about helping him, but either his words didn't make sense or they'd chosen to ignore him. Most people chose to ignore him.

When they walk in the emergency entrance, there's a whole flurry of noise. He must look bad. There's not even a wait to be seen. Nurses are rushing over to him, maybe a doctor or two, and then he's being pushed down onto a stretcher. The lights flash above him as he's wheeled away, but he can still hear Erica and Boyd, not far away, trailing after him.

Weren't they supposed to be leaving? It's an odd thing to think about when the nurse—he thinks it's Mrs. McCall but he's not entirely sure, his vision is too blurry—is pulling his eyelids up and flashing a light in his eyes to check the dilation. He should be worrying about a concussion or internal bleeding or how many bones are broken, but instead he worries about Erica and Boyd.

Scott had told him. Erica and Isaac and Boyd. They were all going to run away tonight, during the game. Get away from Beacon Hills and the hunters and the kanima and all the other craziness that's been going on. Apparently Boyd and Erica hadn't made it far before Gerard got them and Isaac had been at the game.

They could leave now, while Stiles is distracted by the needle in his arm and the blissful rush of painkillers flooding into his system. But they aren't. He can't see them but he knows they're still there. They're not leaving.

It's his fault. He's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. He's dragged them down with him. Scarlet nerded them.

It's selfish, but he doesn't want them to leave because Derek needs them. Derek needs his pack whole and strong. He doesn't need Stiles but Stiles wants to make Derek need him.

He wants Derek to notice him.

He wants Derek.


	2. Chapter 2

The lights are off when Stiles wakes up and he finds that so merciful he wants to cry. His head hurts. Everything hurts, even over the steady drip of whatever painkillers they have him on. There's something in his hand and he turns his head slowly, blinking his eyes into focus as he looks down at his dad's hand, clenched around Stiles's hand, and then up at John's face. There's so much worry there, so much pain that it hurts Stiles worse than what he's guessing is a broken leg, judging by the thick cast sticking out from under his blanket.

He must have made a sound because John starts, his eyes flying open. They go instantly to Stiles's face and when he sees Stiles staring back relief floods his expression. John drops his face then, covering it with his hands for a moment in a move that Stiles hasn't seen since his mom was sick. Stiles's hand twitches, reaching for his dad. He's not sure which of them it's meant to comfort. Maybe both of them.

"God, Stiles." The words come out like John's been punched, right in the gut. "I thought... You were... God." John runs his hands over his face again and it's possible that he's been crying.

Stiles made his dad cry. He doesn't know if he can ever recover from that fact. "Dad," he starts but he has no idea what to say after that. No reassurances come to mind, at least none that will work. He feels like he might start crying too.

John straightens, putting his Sheriff face on. "Who did this to you? Erica said they found you like that, but I... That's bull. I don't know who did this but I need to. You need to tell me."

Stiles opens his mouth, no idea what's going to pop out of it. He can't think of any good lies. His brain is too addled from painkillers and stress. He doesn't know what happened to Derek. He doesn't know if Erica and Boyd left him. He doesn't know who's alive and who's dead.

"Don't lie to me. Please don't lie to me." His father is begging. He never begs, not to Stiles, not to anyone. Not since Stiles's mom died and the doctors couldn't do anything. It's enough to make Stiles snap his mouth shut. "You could have died and I... I need to know who did this. I need to find them. I need to catch them."

It's left unsaid what John will do when he catches them.

"Gerard Argent."

The surprise on John's face is equal if not less than the surprise Stiles feels. He hadn't meant to say that but it's the only thing he can say. He's in the hospital and John deserves the truth. No more lies. He can't make himself lie anymore. It just might kill both of them.

"The principal?"

Stiles nods slowly. The movement makes the room spin.

Confusion tampers a bit of John's rage. Stiles can see him trying to work it out but it doesn't make any sense to him. It wouldn't. He's missing too many pieces. John starts to rise, ready to go arrest Gerard this instant, but there're too many lingering questions. The questions keep him from going far. John pauses two steps away from the bed and then turns, his brow furrowed as he stares at Stiles.

"What? Why would he do that? Why...?"

Stiles knows what it must look like. Gerard is an old man. A rather fragile seeming old man, kind and sweet unless you get on his bad side. Like Stiles did. He decides then that John needs to hear the whole truth. No more missing puzzle pieces. He'd thought he'd been protecting his dad but he's just been hurting them both and it ended up with them here, in a hospital room.

It feels too much like losing his mom. He can't lose his dad too. He reaches out, even though it hurts. He can't help the whimper that escapes him at the movement but it brings John back to his side. Stiles squeezes his dad's hand.

"Is Scott here?"

John frowns. "He's in the waiting room. Why..."

Stiles talks over his dad's protest. He doesn't need to shout for Scott to hear him. All it takes is Scott's name, said quietly, and then the door is open. Scott stares at him like it's the first time he's seen Stiles. Maybe it is. Maybe they hadn't let anyone but John in. Scott's fingers tighten briefly around the doorknob and Stiles can tell Scott is fighting off claws.

"Scott. Please."

Scott shuts the door slowly. He's frowning slightly, his concern obvious. Scott hasn't been there for him a lot since he hooked up with Allison but he's here now. That counts for something.

Stiles turns to his dad and begins. "What do you know about werewolves?"

* * *

He talks his dad into going home and getting a few hours' sleep before work in the morning. He regrets it almost instantly. Now that he's not passed out, the dark hospital room feels too empty, too lonely. He's never been afraid of the dark, not even after he learned that the monsters that went bump in the night were real. He's afraid now, not of the monsters, but of the men that become them.

He's afraid that Gerard Argent is going to come back and finish the job. Scott didn't know where Gerard was. He hadn't had many details for Stiles, either unwilling or unable to share information on what happened after Stiles was admitted while John was still present.

The door opens minutes after John leaves. He's surprised to see Erica peek in. She checks the room and then slips inside, Boyd following like a shadow behind her. They both meet his eyes, holding his gaze in a firm stare that conveys more than words could. They stayed. They are staying.

That point is made even more clear as Erica carefully levers herself over the railing and into his bed. He blushes automatically and shoots a nervous look at Boyd but Boyd just settles into the chair that Stiles's dad had just vacated. Erica stretches out next to him, on top of the covers, her head pillowed on the less sore part of Stiles's chest. There's blonde hair in his nose but he can't bring himself to move it.

Boyd's hand closes over Stiles's. His hand is bigger than Stiles's and stronger. His grip feels like safety.

Stiles lets his eyes fall closed. He sleeps, secure in the knowledge that he's got two werewolves watching over him.

He wakes briefly a few hours later, long enough to see a flash of red in the shadowy corner of the room, keeping watch while Erica and Boyd sleep partially on top of him. Warmth floods him. Derek is alright. He wants to say something, anything really, but all he gets out is a muffled groan before sleep pulls him back under.

* * *

The entire pack is in and out of his room in the days that follow. Everyone but Allison, who's disappeared like a ghost.

He hears the whole tale of what he missed on the night of the lacrosse championship, though it comes to him in bits and pieces as different people tell it and as he falls in and out of consciousness. He falls asleep during one conversation and wakes up halfway through the next. It makes the whole situation feel like something he dreamed.

Chris helped Isaac and Scott move Jackson's body, probably right after he dropped off Stiles, Erica, and Boyd. Jackson was dead and then not and then dead and then not. Peter is also not dead, and that thought makes Stiles shiver with fear. He doesn't think Peter's going to come after him, not with the way werewolves seem to be stuck to him like glue lately, but he's had enough near-death experiences for one lifetime to risk being alone with Peter ever.

Derek bit Gerard who didn't turn thanks to Scott's master plan involving switching Gerard's cancer medication for mountain ash pills, which is kind of a terrible thought but it couldn't have happened to a worse asshole, and now Gerard's out there somewhere as a black goo bleeding not-werewolf. That's another thing heaped on the pile of reasons why Stiles may never sleep again.

His leg is broken, which means six to eight weeks in the cast at minimum, and then a whole bunch of physical therapy after that. That's not the only thing that's broken. He's got fractures in his left wrist and hand—that's another six weeks wearing a splint—and cracked ribs plus extensive bruising. At least school had finished before he got injured. He can't imagine having to take his finals from a hospital room or attending classes on crutches. His summer is shot. He'll be lucky if he's healed up in time to play lacrosse next year.

At least all the enforced time at home means he can keep an eye on his dad who's been spending more time watching over Stiles than taking care of himself.

John lingers after he helps Stiles into his room, settling Stiles onto his own bed for the first time in what feels like forever. They haven't talked about werewolves or any of the other weird shit that's been going on in Beacon Hills after Stiles had spilled his guts but the memory of the conversation hangs like lead in the air between them.

"If I asked you to stay out of it, to not get involved in this stuff anymore, would it work?"

The resignation in his father's voice makes Stiles want to cry. He doesn't, barely. "They're my friends, dad. I can't leave them." He forces a grin. "Besides, they'd be lost without me. Someone's got to be the brains to their brawn."

John sighs, but the way he looks at Stiles has a hint of respect in it. "I thought so." He grabs a pile of papers off of Stiles's desk—papers that don't belong to Stiles—and sets them on the bedside table. He gives Stiles one last lingering glance before he leaves, not closing Stiles's door all the way so he can hear in case Stiles needs anything.

Once his dad is gone, Stiles gives in and reaches for the papers. They're pamphlets for self-defense classes, ranging from full martial arts to basic anti-rape prevention. He almost laughs but there's something about the situation that isn't quite funny.

At least John isn't forcing him to the sidelines. That's the last place Stiles ever wants to be.

He dozes for a bit only to wake up a few hours later when someone knocks lightly at his door. He expects to see Scott, but it's not. Boyd stands with one hand on the doorframe, carefully outside the border of Stiles's bedroom, as if he's not sure if he's allowed any further. "Hi."

"Hi," Stiles parrots back. He blinks sleep from his eyes and carefully shifts up into a sitting position. He's pretty sure his dad has piled every spare pillow they own at the head of Stiles's bed so he can sleep propped up like the doctor recommended. "Come on in."

Boyd pushes the door all the way open and only then does Stiles see the plate of cookies he has in his hand. Stiles's eyes light up and he makes grabby motions in the air with his good hand. He's seriously thankful for the painkillers he's on for making movement at all possible, even if they do make him sleep half the day away. His antics force a laugh out of Boyd, though it's muted somewhat, much like the rest of Boyd's personality.

Boyd settles at the edge of Stiles's bed and hands over the plate. "My grandmother made them."

Stiles doesn't even hesitate before peeling back the plastic wrap and shoving one in his mouth. They're chocolate chip—Stiles's favorite—and incredibly good. It's been ages since Stiles has had homemade cookies that were made by someone else. He's a pretty good cook but he's got nothing on Boyd's grandmother. There's something about a grandmother's cookies that just can't be beat.

"So good," Stiles moans around his second cookie, making Boyd laugh yet again. It's strange how much the sound means to him and he realizes belatedly that he's never really heard Boyd laugh before, at least not in a way that wasn't deprecating. "Thanks."

"No problem." Boyd looks at him for a moment before turning to stare down at his hands. "I heard... Scott told Isaac that you'd gotten out of the hospital. I mentioned it to my grandmother and she insisted I take some cookies."

"Your grandmother is a saint." Stiles wonders what kind of a woman Boyd's grandmother must be. He wonders if she knows. He knows very little about Boyd, which is a shame. He knows Boyd works at the ice rink and takes the bus to school and lives in a not-so-great part of town but that's about it.

"She is," Boyd agrees. The conversation sort of dies there. Stiles tries and fails to think of something to say that doesn't sound stupid or prying. Boyd beats him to it. "Thank you."

"What?" Stiles blinks and looks at Boyd with confusion. "What for?"

Boyd looks back at him then, and while his face is its usual blank mask, his eyes are a yellow swirl of emotion. "You didn't leave us."

Stiles stares. For one of the few times in his life, he's at a loss for words so he gapes, open-mouthed like a fish. He looks down at the plate of cookies, now settled in his lap, and for lack of anything better to do, he nudges the plate toward Boyd in blatant offering.

Boyd takes a cookie and smiles, the barest hint of upturned lips but it's there and it makes Stiles weirdly happy.

"You didn't leave either," he says. He means more than just the basement but he's not sure if Boyd reads it that way. Boyd shrugs, like it's nothing, like he hadn't blown his chance to get away from the deathtrap that is Beacon Hills. Stiles thinks that maybe he could build from this moment and actually be Boyd's friend. After all, nothing builds friendships like saving each other from life-or-death situations. It worked for Lydia, sort of. "Do you like Halo?"

Boyd stares at him for a moment before slowly nodding. "Yeah. Of course."

"Wanna play? The splint might get in the way, but I think I can fake it enough to play"

The small smile appears back on Boyd's face and Stiles thinks he may be on to something.

* * *

Scott shows up an hour after Boyd leaves. He drops onto the bed next to Stiles, rocking his shoulder into Stiles's very gently. It's late in the evening, just after dinner—pizza, which he will forgive his dad for just this once but something's going to have to be done while Stiles is out of commission.

"How are you feeling?"

That question started being old the second day he was in the hospital. It's really old now, a week later. "Painkillers are my friend." It hurts if he moves too much or laughs, which is why he's become semi-permanently bonded with his bed. Thankfully his dad is more than willing to play fetch for him and Boyd isn't exactly known for his jokes.

"Do you want to play a game?" Scott asks. It's been too long since they've hung out and gamed together. They use to be online together practically every night and then Scott had been bitten and things had just… changed. He can't pinpoint when they did, only that they went from being comfortably familiar to feeling like there was an unreachable depth between them.

He does, even though he just got done going several rounds with Boyd. He's missed this too much to say no. He has no idea how long they play, other than that it's dark outside his window and he doesn't want to go to sleep. Scott puts on Star Wars—the first of the original trilogy—after they get bored of Halo.

Stiles's eyes start to droop. He can't help it. It's the pills. His attention fades in and out until the movie ends and Scott's standing up, saying his goodbyes as he pulls the covers over Stiles. Stiles wants to protest but his mouth won't work, won't say the words he needs for Scott to stay. He doesn't want to be alone.

He sleeps.

His dreams are of the basement but Erica and Boyd are already dead when he gets there and he watches as Gerard butchers them in front of him before turning the knife on Stiles. His dad shakes him awake. Neither of them can fall back asleep after that.


	3. Chapter 3

Erica shows up the next day with Boyd trailing her. She has a pie from the store and grins at him with a slightly apologetic tint to her lips. "I tried to make one but years of not being allowed near the stove meant it ended poorly."

Stiles blinks. He supposes epilepsy and open flames would probably be a bad combination. "I can teach you if you want, sometime." He gestures to his leg and waves his splint. "Can't do any cooking myself right now. God knows what sort of junk my dad has been sneaking while I was in the hospital."

Erica's eyes light up and they spend the next hour in the kitchen. There's a dusting of flour on the floor and a smear of strawberry on Erica's cheek but they have a successful pie by the time his dad gets home. Erica's talking about making cookies next time.

"Hey, dad," Stiles calls before John can disappear upstairs, probably heading for a well-deserved nap. John pauses in the stairwell and then turns, drawn into the kitchen by the smell of pie. Stiles is propped with his ass in one chair and his leg in another, facing the stove so he can give Erica directions. Boyd's put himself out of harm's way at the far end of the island, but somehow Erica still managed to get flour on him.

"Is that pie?"

Stiles chuckles. "Yes, but it needs to cool. There's some books I wanted from an estate sale on Franklin Street. Do you think you could pick them up for me?"

"Yeah, sure. I can run out now and pick them up."

Stiles frowns. He knows how tired he feels from not sleeping last night and his dad can't be much better, especially after having to get up for work early this morning. "It can wait until tomorrow."

John just waves a hand and Stiles offers a small smile of thanks.

"I've got some cash on my dresser." He pulls a notepad across the table and copies the titles and address from his phone. "The pie should be ready by the time you get back." He glances at the clock and then at Erica, who seems so eager and pleased with her cooking success. "Dinner too, if Erica wants to be my hands again." She nods emphatically.

John takes the paper from him and ruffles his hair. "Sounds good to me. Don't worry about the money. I've got it." His eyes wander to Erica and Boyd. "Don't let him boss you around too much."

Boyd grins, showing teeth—blunt, human teeth, thankfully. "Yes, sir." The irony of Stiles bossing around two werewolves is lost on none of them.

* * *

John returns with not only all three of the books Stiles had wanted, but a trunk full of books that are vaguely occult in nature. Stiles is sorting through them the next morning—he'd rather deal with dusty books than his endless nightmares—when he realizes that there's something strange about the trunk. The dimensions don't match up. He taps the bottom and after a minute of searching, he finds the catch. His eyes widen as he opens the hidden compartment. There's a wealth of serious occult materials hidden in the four-inch tall compartment. He's pretty sure at least three of the jars have mountain ash in them.

There's two leather-bound notebooks in there, too. Spellbooks, Stiles realizes as he flips through them. Real, actual, hand-written spellbooks with Latin phrases and runes and components and everything.

He remembers what Deaton had said about being a Spark and he thinks that maybe if he can do something with the spellbooks, he won't be so defenseless after all.

What's the worst that could happen?

* * *

"Did you have a fight with Derek?"

Stiles blinks and fumbles with his controller. He hasn't had a good night's sleep since the hospital, which means he's not playing his best. His character dies from a headshot and he glares. Erica totally said that to distract him. "No. Why?"

"He keeps prowling outside but never comes in."

Stiles frowns and stares out the window. He doesn't see Derek but he's not a werewolf and Derek doesn't usually make it easy. "Is he out there now?"

Erica shakes her head. "No. He never is when we're here."

"Because he trusts us to keep you safe," Boyd adds from where he's flipping through Stiles's comics on the floor.

Stiles opens his mouth and then closes it, biting back the automatic response about how he doesn't need protecting. His multiple broken and fractured bones are obvious proof of the opposite. The fact that he feels better when one of the werewolves is nearby is even more proof. He picks up his phone instead and opens a new text message.

Don't be a creeperwolf. Next time you're over, come in. You don't even have to use the door.

Erica grins at him as he sets his phone back down. It says something about their growing friendship that she doesn't comment.

She does, however, kill him six more times in Halo.

* * *

Stiles doesn't sleep. The nightmares make sure of that. His dad hasn't worked nights since Stiles got out of the hospital. He knows it's part of the secret conspiracy to make sure he's not alone. Even Scott and Isaac are in on it, dropping by with movies and helping Stiles down the stairs so they can all watch together. Lydia mentioned bringing Jackson over next movie night so the whole pack will be together, minus Derek who seems content to be a stalkerwolf outside Stiles's house.

Until now.

A light tap on his window wakes him from the start of a nightmare, one he's glad to be rid of. He's dreamed of Gerard and black ooze enough for one week.

Red eyes flash outside and Stiles gestures vaguely with his splint. The window slides open. Derek slinks in, stumbling slightly as he encounters the new—well, very old but new to Stiles's room—trunk under the window.

Derek regards him silently for a long moment. Stiles is still partially in the clutches of sleep, even though he doesn't want to be. He's starting to hate sleep.

"You said to come in," Derek says, breaking the silence.

"I did," Stiles agrees. He yawns and leans back against the pillows. He's tired. This isn't new. "Better to be comfy inside. Less stalkerish."

Stiles's eyes have drifted closed but he can still feel Derek's gaze on him. "Are you going to be able to sleep with me in here?" He imagines Derek's angry eyebrows moving in strange werewolf semaphore. If Derek really has been keeping an eye outside, then he knows Stiles hasn't been sleeping.

"Maybe," Stiles says. The word comes out a sleepy slur. He nestles down against his pillow mountain. His eyelids flutter as he hears Derek close the window. He doesn't open his eyes though he's partially curious what Derek's planning to do in the dark room.

Derek snorts softly but that's the only answer Stiles gets. There's a rustle of fabric. His desk chair squeaks. He thinks he hears Derek move some of the papers on Stiles's desk and he wants to tell Derek not to go through his stuff but his mouth doesn't want to move. He's comfortable. His limbs feel heavy and for the first time in a week, sleep comes without a fight.

There are no more nightmares that night.

* * *

When he wakes, Derek is gone and his dad is tapping on the door asking if he wants pancakes. Of course he wants pancakes. Who says no to pancakes?

"Was Derek over last night?" John asks as Stiles hobbles down to the couch. They've taken to eating their meals in the living room since it's easier for Stiles to get to the couch than to sit at the table.

So much for being discrete. The lack of screaming nightmares was probably a fairly big clue. "Yeah," Stiles says, like it's nothing.

"He's the Alpha, right? The leader of them all?"

They haven't talked about any of this since the hospital, despite his dad picking up a trunk full of obviously occult books for him. "Yeah." He picks at his pancakes, chewing on a small bite as he thinks about how to answer. "He gets... He feels responsible. For the whole Gerard thing. He's got this whole protective streak because of..." He shoves a pancake bite into his mouth to keep from saying too much.

"Because of what happened to his family?"

Stiles nods.

"You seem like you slept better last night."

He can't stop the blush that spreads over his face. "Yeah. Nothing puts me out like having a potentially deadly creature of the night watching me sleep."

"So it seems." John is buying none of his bluster. "While I'm not exactly thrilled that he's climbing in through your window, I'm not going to turn him away. Just make sure he stops by during the daytime sometime. Maybe comes over for dinner." John grins then, in the way that means that there will be merciless teasing for weeks to come. "Or stays for breakfast. I don't have to give you the safe sex talk, do I? Or remind you that you're not old enough for anything to be happening between you two?"

Stiles sets his plate aside before he drops it and covers his face with his good hand. He feels like he's radiating heat. He must be super obvious if even his dad is picking up on his stupid crush. "There's nothing like that going on, dad. God, he doesn't even know..." Stiles bites his lip, embarrassed to be admitting it out loud.

"Doesn't know what?"

Stiles peeks between his fingers. "He doesn't even know I like him. We haven't... there's nothing going on. I swear."

John gave him a look. "Stiles. I love you, son, but there is no way a grown man is spending his night in a teenager's bedroom if there isn't anything there."

"It's not... You don't... It's a pack thing."

John arches an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you were a werewolf."

His hand falls away from his face. "You don't have to be a werewolf to be pack." Or at least that's what he's been telling himself for the last year. He's part of Scott's pack and Scott is nominally part of Derek's pack. He's pretty sure Erica and Boyd would beat him if he even suggested he wasn't part of Derek's pack now. "It's about connection, not the bite. Allison and Lydia are both pack."

"By virtue of dating Scott and Jackson." Maybe John had been paying attention to the werewolf spiel.

He shrugs. "By virtue of being a hunter and the only one who knows Archaic Latin. I'm the researcher. Hence the books and the internet history that you should probably not look at because, let's be honest, there's porn on there. I am a teenage boy. But, yeah, not dating anyone in or outside of the pack."

"Alright." John holds up his hands in surrender. "But when that changes, make sure he comes over for dinner. I will not be denied my parental right to put the fear of God into any suitors."

Stiles rolls his eyes, but the fact that his dad thinks there's even a sliver of possibility that he could hook up with Derek fills him with hope.

* * *

He texts Erica later, once his dad has gone off to work, before Scott shows up with the movie marathon of the day. Does everyone know I have a crush on Derek?

The response is almost instantaneous. Yes. Everyone but Derek. Why? Who spilled? Did you two hook up?

He turns red just reading the text. OMG. My dad. No one. No. OMG.

Damn. Wait til school starts. That's my week in the betting pool.

He drops his phone. It lands in his lap and stares at it like it's a viper. They have a betting pool? No. No way. Erica's just teasing him. Maybe. He's not sure he wants to continue this conversation, but the thought of letting Erica continue on her own scares him more. He picks it up with trepidation. No. Just no. He doesn't even like me.

He does.

He doesn't.

Don't make me come over there.

He shudders. Scott is on the way. This conversation would scar him.

Even more reason.

Maybe later. A thought occurs to him. Derek wasn't lurking around here this morning, was he? My dad was a little blunt.

The next text doesn't come for several worrisome minutes. Isaac said he got home around six. I think you're safe.

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. His phone chimes with another text.

Did he stay the night? Did you snuggle?

Stiles doesn't bother to respond. When Scott and Isaac show up later, Stiles pins them with a glare. "Tell me about the betting pool."

Scott's blush and Isaac's laugh are confirmation that there really is a betting pool. Oh God. Stiles falls back against the pillows and buries himself under stray pillows. His whole body feels like it's gone scarlet with sheer mortification. Maybe he'll just lay here and suffocate and it'll all be over with.

Scott doesn't let him suffocate. He digs Stiles out and levels Stiles with a concerned puppy face, then asks if Stiles wants to talk about his feelings. Stiles groans. Isaac doesn't stop laughing.


	4. Chapter 4

One of the few benefits of being confined to his house with a broken leg for the entirety of summer break is that he has a lot of time to read. Even with all the pack visits, he manages to get through most of their required reading list for the next semester of English and index the three books he'd originally sent his dad for, adding the useful notes with citations for further reading to the online bestiary he and Lydia have been working on. Google Drive is probably not the best place for it but he can always say it's part of a shared-world fiction project.

He doesn't have much alone time to read through the spellbooks but he's pretty sure he's got the basics of protection spells down. Not much use in the heat of battle, unless you had them already tattooed or written on your skin. Something to look into once he turns eighteen. He can use all the help he can get.

He gets through the basic theory. He can identify a harmful spell from a helpful one just from the ingredients. He memorizes the entire alphabet of Futhark runes, their meanings, and their Nordic translations.

The first actual spell he attempts is a simple levitation trick. He spends hours staring at the pencils on his desk, willing them to move. When one of them finally does wiggle, he almost blames the wind until he realizes his window is closed. He has to press his hand over his mouth to suppress the whoop of excitement he lets out because he doesn't want his dad to come running thinking something's wrong. By the end of the week, he still can't make the pencil levitate but he can make it roll around his desk by chanting.

It's progress.

* * *

The next time there's a pack movie night even Jackson and Lydia show up. Stiles glances around his strangely full living room but it still feels like someone's missing. He texts Derek. Get your furry ass over here. We're watching movies.

He's surprised to even get a text back. What movies?

Erica suppresses a giggle from where she's sitting next to him, reading over his shoulder. Scott gives him an odd look until Isaac bumps Scott's leg from where he's sitting at Scott's feet. If Stiles were a betting man, he'd think Scott and Isaac were going to hook up. The idea is not as strange as it once would have been. He wonders how Allison would fit into the dynamic. She's been avoiding them since the Gerard fiasco but Stiles plans to fix that once the cast is off.

Does it matter? Your pack is here. You should be here too.

On my way.

Who the hell actually writes that out? Text shorthand was invented for a reason.

Shut up. Driving.

Stiles can't stop smiling and the looks Scott is throwing him now speak volumes that Stiles refuses to answer, at least until Erica bounds up to answer the door before Derek can even knock. She leaves her seat vacant, conveniently the only seat open in the entire living room, and hops over Stiles's cast to sit on the floor, leaning against Boyd and Stiles.

Derek grabs a handful of chips as he sits down next to Stiles, like it's the most natural thing in the world. No one even blinks at Derek's arrival, though Lydia looks pleased as she surveys the whole pack together from her seat on Jackson's lap.

Stiles falls asleep halfway through Hot Fuzz. His head ends up on Derek's shoulder and he doesn't even realize it until his dad is waking him up to go to bed. Everyone but Derek is gone.

Derek helps him up the stairs and to the bathroom. Stiles settles into bed. Derek's already flopped down in the plush chair in the corner of Stiles's room, book in hand. John shuts off the light, not saying anything about Derek's presence but shooting the werewolf a meaningful glance that gets ignored.

Stiles sleeps even better that night.

* * *

Lydia is over helping him learn Ancient Latin, or at least helping him with the pronunciation part while they read out loud from a book set between their laps. Once upon a time, having Lydia Martin sitting next to him on his bed would have set his heart aflutter. Now, there's nothing and Jackson seems slightly smug for it. He's unintentionally mirroring Boyd's usual spot on the floor next to the bed, comics piled in his lap. Apparently Stiles has a good collection. Who knew?

"Is my crush on Derek really obvious?" He asks out of the blue when they reach the end of a page.

"Yes," Lydia and Jackson chorus, not even looking up from the books in front of them. "Except to Derek, because he's oblivious just like you," Lydia adds.

"He doesn't like me," Stiles protests.

"Like I said, oblivious. Read the next line."

He manages not to completely mangle the words. Lydia only corrects him twice.

"It's levi-oh-sa," Jackson mutters from the floor.

Stiles blinks and turns to Lydia. "Did he just make a Harry Potter joke?"

"He won't admit it, but he's a fan. Lord of the Rings too."

Stiles blinks again and turns towards Jackson, feeling strange and unnatural as he says, "I have the extended trilogy if you want to watch them later."

Jackson smirks, which is as close to a yes as he's going to get.

"Seriously though," Lydia says. "Just ask Derek out. He'll say yes."

Stiles groans and reads the next line of Latin instead of responding.

* * *

His conversation with Lydia is still playing in his head when Derek crawls in his window later. Stiles is drowsing, not quite asleep but not fully awake. His room is dark. It lends an air of privacy to the room, like anything he says will go no further.

"Where are you staying?" He says instead of what he wants to.

"The warehouse. You know that."

He snorts. "You should get a better place. Somewhere for the pack."

"The pack is fine at the warehouse. Erica and Boyd sleep at home, anyways."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "You don't. I'm assuming Isaac doesn't either."

Derek glares at him. Stiles can tell because of the brief red flash across the room. "We're fine."

Stiles is quiet for a long minute. He knows Derek knows he's not asleep. It takes him a while to figure out a phrasing that doesn't sound insulting or accusatory. "If not for yourself, then for Isaac. He deserves a proper home."

Derek is quiet after that. Stiles falls asleep, wishing he had the guts to say something else.

* * *

The cast and splint come off the day before school starts. He still needs crutches, at least until he builds back the strength in his legs, but he can walk, finally. John drops him off and then he's surrounded. Erica takes his bag while Boyd forms a sort of human blockade, moving people out of Stiles's way with his presence alone. With their help, he actually gets to his first class on time, a feat he thought would take a minor miracle.

Erica and Scott flank him in English class. The pack passes him between them after that, even Jackson taking a turn at helping Stiles through the halls.

"You know," Stiles says at lunch with a meal that Scott had delivered to him after pointedly telling Stiles to go sit down. "People are going to think you're all sleeping with me or something." He somehow managed to get shuffled from the end of the table to the center with the pack splayed around him. The only one who's missing is Allison and there's no way Stiles is going to get the privacy to talk to her in person until he's no longer reliant on his crutches to get around. She's not even in the cafeteria. He'd know, because Scott would be shooting moon eyes at her.

"If you weren't taken, I'd take that as an invitation." Erica elbows him lightly before biting into an apple.

"Stiles is taken?" Danny asks as he slides into a seat next to Lydia, like this new seating arrangement is perfectly normal and natural.

"Yes," Lydia says. "But he won't admit it. His not-boyfriend is equally oblivious."

Danny gives Stiles a speculative look. "Miguel?"

A bunch of eyebrows raise as Stiles groans. "Yes, but his name is actually Derek. Derek Hale."

Danny whistles. "Get on that. I mean, seriously. Climb him like a tree and don't let him go."

Stiles's face turns bright red and he wonders if there's a spell to make him disappear into the floor. If there is, he hasn't found it yet. The laughter at the table doesn't make it any better.

* * *

His days are even more packed than they were during the summer. Between school, physical therapy, actual therapy with the school counsellor, and pack time, he barely has any time to look at his spellbooks.

When he finally manages to make a pencil levitate, he wants to call everyone and show them but he holds back. He's not entirely sure why he holds back, just that he wants to wait until he has something bigger, something cooler to show off.

He works on trying to light a candle next.

* * *

Erica tells him about the loft before he has a chance to see it. She comes over for help with her English and then Isaac swings by the next day for help with Math. Between Stiles and Lydia, they've got the pack covered as far as tutoring.

Scott drives him over to the loft on the weekend for movies and Stiles uses the excuse of stretching his legs to surreptitiously sharpie protection spells all over the house where they won't be noticed.

"What are you doing?"

Stiles looks up from where he's writing on the underside of Derek's bedroom window. Derek's got the whole raised eyebrows thing going and Stiles realizes he looks pretty strange sitting on the floor with a sharpie in hand.

"Writing protection spells."

Derek squats down to look at Stiles's work. It's a line of Futhark runes twisted and tangled together into one long sigil, unintelligible unless you know what to look for. This is the sixth set Stiles has done, managing to get every window except the ones in the living room where everyone is watching Iron Man. Stiles is kind of sad to be missing it.

"Do they work?"

Stiles shrugs. "I don't know. They've never been tested."

"You did this to your own house?"

As soon as the cast had come off. "This and more."

"You can stay and finish up after the others go home," Derek says, a strangely hesitant tone to his voice. "If you want. I can give you a ride home."

"Okay." Derek hasn't been sleeping over since Stiles got the cast off, so he's not going to protest spending more time with Derek. The nightmares aren't as bad now. Only once a week and he doesn't wake his dad anymore

He scribes the last rune and then Derek gives him a hand up. Stiles has the immediate thought of leaning in and kissing Derek for the first time, but he doesn't. He's too chicken-shit.

Instead, he lets Derek help him down the stairs to rejoin the others watching the movie. Erica, Jackson, and Isaac shuffle over to give Stiles space on the couch. When Derek settles on the floor next to Stiles, he counts it as a victory.


	5. Chapter 5

The day he's finally allowed to have his Jeep back is a glorious day. He spends Saturday morning driving around for half an hour before he gets a destination in mind. There's a new shop he's been meaning to visit. It's an occult shop that seems more teenybopper Hot Topic style than anything real, but Stiles is always on the lookout for more books, even if they're only half right.

The bell chimes as he walks in. His right leg is only a little stiff now. He's not up for lacrosse or track yet but at least he can walk without hobbling too obviously. There's a bunch of basic books near the front, the kind of stuff he could find at Barnes & Noble. There's kitschy t-shirts, some essential oils, a ton of candles—he picks up a few—and some herbs, mostly the kind used for potpourri or loose-leaf tea.

As he makes his way toward the back of the shop, things get serious. The shop is obviously trying to come off as innocuous but either they accidentally managed to find some useful stuff or they're hiding it in plain sight. There's a cardboard box of books on the floor and Stiles turns towards the lady at the cash register who's watching Stiles with the same amount of curiosity that Stiles regards her.

"Are these for sale?"

"Yes. I can hold those candles up here while you look."

He drops off the candles with a smile before digging into the box. He wants to take at least half of them home with him but he settles for the four that seem the most useful—one on myths and creatures, one on ancient languages, one on stones and crystals, and another on basic energy theory.

The cashier grabs a business card as she tallies up his total. "You're a friend of Alan Deaton's, aren't you?"

Stiles shrugs and hands over his money. He's pretty sure she gave him a ten-dollar discount. "We know each other, yeah."

She scribbles a time—7pm—and a date—this coming Thursday—on the back of the card. "Our group meets every week. You should come if you can."

Stiles holds the card in his hand for a moment, staring at it before tucking it away. She means her coven. He's just been invited to a coven.

He nods and tucks the card into his pocket. "I'll think about it."

He's going to go. He already knows it. The temptation is too much to let this opportunity slip away.

* * *

"Hey, Erica, if I show you something, can you promise not to tell anyone?"

Erica looks up from her notebook and raises a pointed eyebrow. "If you show me your penis, I'm telling everyone."

Stiles glares. "It's not my penis."

"Sure, it isn't." She grins like a maniac. There was no way he is ever letting her near his penis.

"You can't tell, okay. Not yet," he says, and then makes his pencil float above his palm.

Erica jerks sideways, nearly falling over. As she stares, he makes it spin in a little circle before dropping back into his palm.

"Sooo." Erica draws the word out. "That happened."

Stiles smiles and stares down at the pencil. "Yeah." It feels like such a huge relief to have finally shown someone.

"And you're not telling everyone else about this because..."

He shrugs. "I don't know. I just want... I want it to be something more, when I do. I want it to be something useful."

"Well, if you ever need a pencil from across the room..."

He sticks his tongue out at her. She sticks hers out right back. "I'm serious. I don't want to be a liability. My dad wants me to start self-defense classes as soon as I finish physical therapy, and that's great and all for defense but I want to be able to help with the offense."

Erica gives him a look, halfway between pitying and understanding. "Stiles..."

He holds up his hand. "I know I don't have to prove anything. I just want to be useful."

She sits up and pats him on the knee. "You are. I mean it. And not just for keeping me from failing English, I mean other stuff too. You're our brain, our tactician. We need you."

He flushes and looks away. "I need you guys too."

"Of course you do. Pack needs each other. That's the way it is."

She's right. They need him as much as he needs them. He just wants to need them less to keep himself alive. They'd all benefit from that.

* * *

"Hey, can we talk?"

Alison jumps, apparently startled to see him. "I don't think-"

"We miss you," he blurts. He looks away, blushing and rubbing the back of his head. "I mean, not just Scott. The whole pack. You don't need to stay away."

This is not a conversation they should be having at school, but the halls are too loud with all of the students rushing to go home for anyone to really overhear them.

"I can't..." Alison looks away, guilty. It's a whole awkward moment of not looking each other in the face. She drops her voice lower. "I got you hurt. Erica and Boyd too."

"You didn't. Gerard did."

"But..."

"I was there." It comes out harsher than he intends, making Allison flinch. "You weren't. It's not your fault."

"I still feel like it was," she says, her voice miserable.

"Well, you're alone there. But seriously, you're welcome back whenever you're ready. No one blames you for what happened. We need you back. It just doesn't feel right without you."

She offers a small, hesitant smile and he knows he's made progress. "Thanks."

* * *

The shop owner's name is Cassandra. She has the air of a mother, or someone who should be a mother. She greets him with a smile and then leads him into the back room, through a small storage area, and up a creaky set of stairs to a homey apartment.

The others are already there, seated around the living room. Cassandra introduces them one by one, Stiles first. Andrew looks like the stereotypical pot-smoking hippie. Lind wears all black, head-to-toe, but seems nice enough. Jill is just a year or two older than Stiles and dresses a lot like Lydia.

"Sherry running late again?" Jill asks as she examines her manicure.

Cassandra takes a seat near Stiles, completing the loose circle of chairs around a coffee table set with unlit candles and herbs. "She hasn't contacted me."

Andrew shrugs. "She'll show up if she does." Sadly, the statement makes sense to Stiles. He's used to the same sort of vague scheduling with Derek.

Cassandra stretches out her arms. The others join hands, and after a second of them staring at him, Stiles does as well. He feels a jolt inside of him, like a flare of warmth that fills him then recedes down to a soft glow. The candles flare to life. Their hands fall away but the connection remains.

He wonders if this is what the pack bond feels like. He can feel the presence of the other witches around him, feel the power of their connection to each other. He thinks that if he closes he eyes he could see it too.

"Can you feel it?" Cassandra asks.

He nods, not having to ask what he's meant to feel. With a little bit of practice, he could probably pick out each individual, see the light that is their aura and the lines that link them all together.

Cassandra smiles like it's a victory. "Let's start off simple. What do you know of magic?"

Not as much as he thought, it turns out.

* * *

It takes a full week after their conversation before Allison finally joins them at lunch. She sets her tray down slowly, as if unsure of her welcome. Lydia slides her tray over to make room for Allison without missing a beat in explaining differential equations to Isaac. It's going right over Isaac's head but Stiles finds it fascinating, not because it's new material for him but because of the enthusiasm in Lydia's voice.

Stiles smiles at Allison, trying to be encouraging, and Lydia bumps their shoulders together.

No one so much as blinks an eye at Allison's arrival. Scott sits down next to her seconds later with the dopiest smile on his face. She smiles back hesitantly.

Within minutes Allison is drawn into the conversation about math homework—not differential equations, but their actual homework—and Stiles feels a small measure of victory.


	6. Chapter 6

An urgent text from Isaac brings the whole group to Derek's loft.

"I saw something," Isaac says without preamble once they're all assembled. There's blood on his sleeve but the gash itself has long since healed over. "In the graveyard."

Stiles quirks an eyebrow. "Do I want to know what you were doing in the graveyard this late at night?"

The others share a look that means Stiles has been deliberately left out of something. At least Allison looks just as confused.

Scott looks at Derek first before speaking slowly. "We've been patrolling. Looking for Gerard."

Stiles stiffens. He can't help his reaction or the fear that washes over him.

He's surrounded in seconds. Erica is in his lap, pulling his face against her neck. He can feel Boyd at his side, squeezing his hand, and Scott sitting on his feet. He's pretty sure the hand on the back of his chair is Derek's, lingering near but not touching.

His breathing slows. He hadn't even realized he'd been gasping for air until he's coming down from the panic attack. Erica's fingers card through his hair as she whispers soothing nonsense into his ear.

"Why have we not done this more often?" Stiles says. "I'm all for cuddling, FYI. Just less panic attacks beforehand."

The werewolf barrier around him slackens but doesn't let up. He raises his head to find that yes, that is Derek behind him, looking like he wants to go defend Stiles's honor or something. Even Isaac and Jackson are hovering nearby.

"Sorry we didn't tell you," Scott says, bumping Stiles's knee with his shoulder.

"No," Stiles says. "No, I get it. I'm not ready for Ge-" He can't even say it. "Things."

Then he looks up across the room and sees Allison staring at him with a look of utter shock and horror. She doesn't know how bad it was, he realizes. She never visited him at the hospital. She didn't see the damage, not until weeks later when he'd been off his crutches.

"Sooo," Stiles starts. Erica leans further into his shoulder, like a vicious, blonde safety blanket. "Gerard kind of fucked me up so bad I get nightmares about it still."

Allison's hand flies to her mouth and for a second, she looks like she's about to cry. Then Lydia is up and herding her elsewhere. A door shuts down the hall, blocking out the hushed tones of Lydia's voice.

Stiles lets his head fall back with a sigh. His hair tickles against Derek's fingers and he ends up looking straight up at Derek.

"For the record, I'm not as traumatized as it may seem." No one calls him on his bullshit. "But thank you for being on the lookout."

"It's our job," Derek says, matter-of-factly.

"It's really not, but thanks anyways. My dad has an APB out on him too."

For a change, Derek doesn't argue with him which is a testament to how fragile they all must think he is.

He sighs. "So what did you see, Isaac?"

They all shift away from him slowly, almost reluctantly seeking their own seats. Erica stays and Boyd takes Lydia's spot on the couch, the closest spot to him that isn't the floor. Derek paces.

Isaac waits for Derek's nod before beginning. "There was something climbing out of one of the graves. Like a zombie but weird. Pale. Its hair was kind of... I don't know, floating? And it had some pretty wicked talons."

"Was it all grey looking? Like the color was washed out?" Stiles asks.

Isaac stares at him in a mixture of surprise and disbelief. "Yeah."

"Whose grave did it come out of?"

"Murphy Kinger. That old man who committed suicide last year."

"Gjenganger."

"Bless you."

Stiles shoots Scott a glare. "No. That's what it's called. It's a revenant. A wight. Like a zombie but not. They're more intelligent and can only be raised from a person who was murdered, a murderer, or someone who committed suicide. Usually they go after their own family first."

They all stare at him. Erica can't stop giggling every time she looks at Scott, Jackson, or Isaac. There are a number of slack jaws in the group.

"What?" Stiles asks, blushing in embarrassment. "I had a lot of free time to read, what with the broken leg and ribs and all that."

Of course that was the moment Alison chooses to walk back in. She freezes and stares at him. "I'm so, so sorry."

Stiles waves the hand that isn't currently trapped by Erica's back. "You didn't do anything. I don't blame you for the fact that your grandfather's crazy."

She opens her mouth but Derek shakes his head. For once she doesn't even hesitate before listening. She sits down next to Scott and takes his hand in a tight hold.

Lydia drops onto Jackson's lap. "What'd we miss?"

"I was dazzling them with my intellect," Stiles says.

Lydia rolls her eyes. Allison almost laughs.

"There was a wight in the graveyard. Isaac took care of it." Derek shoots a look over at Stiles. "I'm assuming he took care of it."

Isaac sits up straight, worry on his face. "Is it going to come back? I mean, I practically decapitated it, then reburied it."

Stiles shakes his head. "No. It's like a vampire in that regards. Take out the head or heart and it's done."

Derek squeezes Isaac on the shoulder. "We should be on the lookout for more. Check the cemeteries when you can. Look for disturbed graves."

Allison raises her hand. Derek quirks an eyebrow and nods at her. She's never asked permission to speak before. "Can I tell my dad about this? We might be able to help."

Derek opens his mouth. Stiles coughs pointedly and glares. He already knows what Derek is going to say, an outright refusal based solely on the fact that they are Argents.

Derek sighs. Stiles almost jumps up in victory but Erica's weight keeps him still. He's not sure why Derek has chosen to listen to him, but he does. "Fine. We can use all the help we can get."

"Speaking of help..." Derek's eyebrow shoots back up. "I should warn my dad." Stiles glances at Jackson. "And I think we should invite Danny to join the pack."

As expected, Jackson reacts terribly. "What? What are you thinking? No!" The others chime in, some for, some against, but Jackson's protests nearly drown them all out.

Derek holds up a hand. The room slowly falls back into silence. "Why?" Apparently Derek remembers the Miguel shirt incident because he doesn't even ask who Danny is.

Stiles holds up fingers to tick off his points. "He's already part of the group. It would be nice to not have to lie to him." He directs a pointed look at Jackson, who is supposedly Danny's best friend. He knows Jackson hasn't told Danny anything. "He's got skills the rest of us are missing, namely with computers. He's on track and the lacrosse team so he's got some good defensive capabilities. Better than me and Lydia, at least."

Erica raises her eyebrow and nearly stares a hole through him, but she doesn't mention the whole pencil thing.

"You're suggesting I bite him?" Derek says. There's no opposition in his voice. He's actually considering it.

Jackson, predictably, has another cow at that. "You can't. He'd be in danger."

"Just like the rest of us," Isaac points out.

"He's already in danger," Stiles says. "I mean, look what happened when we left Lydia out." He doesn't point out what happened to him. The humans in the group have a serious problem with being collateral damage. "Something's going to happen as long as he hangs around us. It'd be better if he knew what was coming."

"I agree with Stiles on this," Scott says. If they were close enough, Stiles would have fist-bumped Scott so he offers an air bump instead. Scott doesn't let him down.

"Me too." Lydia is an unexpected source of support but in retrospect it makes sense. She knows what it's like to be left out.

"Fine," Jackson says, grumpy. "But I get to talk to him."

"Go ahead." Derek gives Jackson a pointed look. "Make sure he knows the offer of the bite is on the table."

"Yeah, yeah." Jackson shrinks into his chair. He doesn't like it, but he can't think of any good argument against it.

Stiles smiles. They're going to have a new pack member.

* * *

Danny takes the news surprisingly well. It helps when your best friend is a werewolf. Stiles knows this from personal experience. When the connection is already there, it's easy to forget that all that stands between you and death by wild werewolf is the strength of your best friend's control.

Scott's control wasn't too great in the beginning. Jackson is surprisingly better but then he's used to having an even worse secret to hide.

"Can we talk?" Danny asks, catching Stiles before he leaves for the day. Erica is already heading over to ask him for a ride and he subtly waves her off.

Apparently not so subtly. "If you're busy..."

Stiles sighs. "No. Wanna swing by my place in an hour or so? I'm assuming this is the kind of talk better suited for somewhere not the school."

Danny grins. "Yeah. Thanks. I'll see you then."

Erica sidles over seconds later. "Derek's going to be jeaaalous."

Stiles looks over at Boyd but Boyd just shakes his head. Either he doesn't know or he doesn't want to get involved. Either is plausible.

"Why is Derek going to be jealous? It's just Danny. Danny's been to my house before. Derek was there."

Erica grins and skips on ahead, not bothering to answer the question until they're out on the road. "It's a scent thing. Territory. Your house is going to smell like a stranger."

"Danny's not a stranger. He's going to be pack."

"Going to be." Erica points out with an extra pointy finger in his side. She's lucky he's a steady driver. "Isn't yet." She shrugs. "He's also a pretty hot guy who has a thing for other guys. Tell me you don't want to get on that."

He pulls to a halt in front of Boyd's house at the perfect moment, allowing him to take his hands of the wheel and flail. "No. There is no getting on that. It's Danny. I do not want to sleep with Danny."

"See you tomorrow," Boyd says as he beats a hasty retreat from their conversation. Stiles doesn't blame him. He'd leave too if it didn't mean leaving Erica alone with his Jeep. She's already damaged it enough for one lifetime.

He pulls back onto the road as Erica responds. "You don't find him even a little bit hot?"

Stiles frowns and tries to think of a way to express his feelings that make sense. "He's attractive but in the kind of way that a painting is beautiful. Yeah, he's nice to look at but I don't want to sleep with him. I don't want to sleep with anyone except..." He cuts himself off with a blush.

"Derek?" Erica throws her head back and cackles. "That is so sappily sweet. I want to tell Derek but then Isaac will win the betting pool. Wait a few more weeks and then Boyd's got it."

Stiles is pretty sure his face is going to be stuck permanently red. "I just... It's always been one person at a time for me. There was Lydia and now... now there's Derek."

Erica snorts. "You're better off with Derek. He at least likes you back."

It should sting, but it doesn't. They've both had crushes that didn't work out. Stiles forgets sometimes that he was one of Erica's.

He drops her off and the fidgets at home, waiting for Danny to come over. He hears a car pull in the driveway. When he opens the door, it's Derek there instead of Danny.

His conversation with Erica flashes back in his head and he blushes. "Derek. Hi. Hello. What can I... Why are you here?"

Derek raises an eyebrow. He looks like he's fighting back a grin. "There was another thing last night. A little different. I wanted your opinion."

"Right. Of course." Why else would Derek be here? It's not like they went from spending nearly every night together to barely seeing each other. "Let me get my laptop." He waves his hand towards the living room in a gesture he hopes Derek can translate to 'make yourself comfortable'.

When he gets back from his room, after grabbing both his laptop and an Old English text, Danny is there, sitting uncomfortably on the couch on the opposite side from Derek.

"Hi." Stiles plunks himself down between the two. He turns to Danny. "You remember Derek?"

"Yeah." Danny smiles. "We were just talking about the whole Miguel thing."

"Right." Stiles blushes and opens his laptop. He clicks on the icon for the bestiary. Derek is prickly beside him and he wonders how much of what Erica said before applies here. "I'll be with you in one sec," he tells Danny, then turns to Derek. "What have you got?"

"Another corpse. Stronger, faster, dumber. Seemed pretty focused on just tearing things apart."

Danny stiffens beside him. Stiles ignores him for the moment. This is the kind of conversations he's going to have to get used to if he wants to be in the pack. "Anyone hurt?"

"No. It was no match for Isaac and me. If there had been more of them, maybe, but there was just the one."

"For now." Two pairs of eyes focus on him. "Someone's raising these things. I've heard of magic that can do that." He doesn't mention that there's a book upstairs outlining the exact theory and why it's a bad, bad idea to put into practice. "Whoever it is, they're testing the waters. Raising them one at a time until they can do more. I wouldn't be surprised if we start to see larger groups."

"I'll warn the others."

Thank God they're all finally working together. If they were split six different ways, this would be a disaster. "What you've got is a weiderganger." He types into the computer and pulls up the appropriate page of notes. "They're the basis for the draugar in Skyrim." Derek gives him a blank look. "Which, of course, you haven't played. Basic zombies with super strength. The Headless Horseman story is supposedly based on a weiderganger. Again, cutting off the head is the best strategy. Fire is also pretty effective."

"Good to know." Derek stands. He glances between Stiles and Danny but whatever he is thinking is hidden behind his usual grumpy mask. "I'll see you later."

"Yeah." He waits until Derek turns before scooting over to the spot where Derek had been sitting. His eyes follow Derek as he leaves—through the front door, for a change.

"Hopeless much?"

Stiles flails, turning beat red. "He can still hear you," he hisses.

Danny raises an eyebrow. He thankfully lowers his voice but keeps talking, making Stiles flail even more. "How has he not figured you out yet? I mean, it's obvious."

Stiles shushes Danny and then waits until he hears the Camaro's engine start before speaking. "Dude, not cool."

Danny just chuckles. "No wonder you're getting nowhere."

"You came here to talk. I'm assuming it wasn't about my lack of love life."

Danny grins, entirely unrepentant. "Yeah, but that's such a fun topic."

"You and Erica can form a club." He settles back against the couch with his arms crossed. "Talk."

Danny's grin slowly slips away. He stares away from Stiles, seemingly at nothing. "So the whole human running around with werewolves thing. How do you do it?"

Stiles shrugs. "You just do, I guess. I mean, there was never a choice for me. I figured it out before Scott did, so I've always been in the thick of it. I don't know another way."

"Aren't you worried about getting hurt?"

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Did you miss the whole crutches thing at the beginning of the semester and lack of track team? I..." Stiles hesitates. The words catch in his throat and he has to force them out. "I got hurt pretty bad over the summer. Not by one of the pack, but by someone who was after them. One of the hunters." He glances at Danny. "Did Jackson explain about those?"

Danny nods. "Yeah. They're mostly gone, right?"

"Yeah. Well, from Beacon Hills at least. There's still Allison and her dad, but they're allies, for the most part."

"Have you ever thought about..." Danny hesitates.

"Taking the bite?"

Danny nods.

"It was offered to me." Danny's eyebrows shoot up. "I turned it down. This was before Derek was... just, before. I've thought about it since and it's just not for me. There are other ways I can help."

Silence stretches between them for over a minute.

"Do you think I should take the bite?" Danny asks.

"That's up to you. If it's just about getting hurt, I wouldn't. There's more that comes with the bite than just faster healing. You have to learn to control yourself so you don't accidentally hurt people. Then there's the question of whether or not to tell your family and how to do that. I had to tell my dad when I was in the hospital. I know Boyd's told a few of his family, his grandmother at least, and Erica told her parents. The when and how is up to you but I can say from personal experience that having to lie all the time sucks."

Danny nods.

"There's also the pack," Stiles continues. "The bite means you're family. The bond between packmates is pretty strong, like you'd fight to the death to protect them. That means more than just Jackson and Lydia but Derek, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac too."

"And you and Scott and Allison."

Stiles smiles. "Yeah, us too. You should see Erica since the incident over the summer. She almost took off Greenburg's head when he accidently knocked me over when I was on my crutches the first week of school."

Danny smiles back. "I remember that. I thought Greenburg was going to pee himself."

"I wouldn't have blamed him. So, that. Pack."

Danny stands then. "Thanks. You've given me a lot to think about."

"Any time."

He shows Danny to the door and nearly sighs in relief. He's had enough of talking about semi-uncomfortable topics today. Right now, all he wants to do is research what other types of undead might be popping up and practice lighting candles.


	7. Chapter 7

Isaac mass-texts them about a group of four wights at the cemetery. Stiles hops in his Jeep without even thinking about it. He nearly beats the others there. Nearly. The instant he puts the Jeep into park, Derek's there, his eyes red and his expression angry.

"What are you doing here?" Derek growls.

Stiles flails and almost gets tangled in his seatbelt. "I came to help."

"Go home."

Stiles catches movement behind Derek. His eyes go wide. "Behind you."

One of the wights takes a swing at Derek, narrowly avoiding scratching the Jeep to hell. Stiles unbuckles his seatbelt and scrambles out the other side. Of course he comes face to face with another wight and has to duck to avoid a swing.

He doesn't even think about it. The fire's there before he even realizes it. He lifts his hand, palm facing out towards the wight and it's engulfed in flames. He can hear Derek taking out his aggression on wight that attacked him. The other two wights run toward Stiles, being chased in his direction by Isaac and Erica. The wolves are too far behind to get to the wights before the wights get to him.

He does the spell again, taking both at once. Isaac jumps backward with an audible yelp while Erica just crows with excitement.

"What the hell?"

Stiles realizes the flaw in his plan when he turns to face Derek and sways on his feet. "Tada?"

"You did that?"

He should feel insulted by Derek's tone but right now he just feels dizzy. "Yep. Can you drive me home? I think I'm going to pass out now."

True to his word, he does.

* * *

He wakes, not in his bed, but on Derek's couch. There are voices arguing around him, but the words cut off as he sits up with a groan. Erica flops down where his head had been. Hers was one of the voices he heard arguing. He can tell that just from the frown on her face and her crossed arms.

"You okay?" Scott asks.

Stiles waves a hand. "Fine." He can't help the groan as he swings his legs around to sit properly. His head is pounding. "Just a headache. And some magic fatigue."

"Magic fatigue?" Derek bites the words out like they're made of poison. Stiles can feel him looming without looking up. Right now he's too busy pressing his pounding head into his hands. "What the hell?"

He moves one hand to wave it in a weak imitation of jazz hands. "Tada. I can do magic. Besides the protection runes, that is." Erica is his new favorite. She's rubbing the back of his head and neck and while it doesn't do much for the headache, it at least feels good and helps him relax slightly.

"Since when?" Derek sounds furious.

He winces. In retrospect, he probably should have told them sooner.

He risks a glance up and yep, that's Derek's furious face. "Since very recently." Derek's frown deepens and Stiles keeps talking. Talking always helps. Usually. Sometimes. "It was just little things. I made a pencil float. I've been working on lighting candles. I got one to spark a bit the other day, but I've never... That was the first time I did anything that big. I didn't even know I could do that, it was just there, and then after it was like all the energy was sucked out of me. Hence the passing out."

"Dude, that sounds awesome. I wish I'd seen it." Scott is now his second favorite.

Stiles manages a small smile over the throbbing pain. "Maybe next time."

"There won't be a next time." Predictable Derek.

Stiles glares. "Dude. I kicked ass. In case you missed it, which I know you didn't, I immolated three of those things."

"Accidentally. Without training or practice. And then passed out."

"Again, first time. I don't have the stamina built up yet, but it'll get better. Besides, the fact that there were that many should be a big, neon warning sign. This is only going to get worse. You need my magic."

Derek's angry face lightens minutely, shifting to heavily-veiled concern. "Explain."

Stiles sighs. He wishes he had his laptop. "We've seen the basic two forms—the gjenganger or wight and the weiderganger or draugar. If the pattern continues, we're probably going to see a nachzehrer next and those things are nasty. Think vampire that can suck your life force with its breath. They're created from accidental deaths or people who committed suicide and to kill them you have to shove a coin in their mouth—yes, a coin—before chopping off their head. The coin is actually the harder part, since it immobilizes them, so the head choppy part is no biggie. If allowed to run loose, they can cause a magical plague. So, bad news."

Erica whistles. "These undead are not playing around."

"Whatever necromancer is raising them definitely isn't. I'll ask my coven if they know anyone with that kind of power."

"Your what?" Derek's voice is all growly again. Yep, definitely should have mentioned the whole magic thing sooner.

"My coven," he says slowly. Scott's eyes are huge. Isaac looks fascinated while Boyd just looks like normal Boyd. "I joined one. They've been helping me with my magic. They're nice people. We meet and have tea on Thursdays. The leader, Cassandra, runs that teeny bopper occult shop on Fifth."

Derek puts a hand on his face. "Did it ever occur to you that one of them might be the necromancer?"

He pauses and goes through each of the coven in turn. "Yeah, not possible. None of them have that air. They're hippies and tree-hugging pagans. Besides, I've felt... I guess it's kind of like the pack bond, but temporary." For some reason, that statement only makes Derek angrier. "They're safe. I know them, on the deepest mystical level I can. Necromancy leaves a shadow and none of them have it. I haven't met Sherry yet, but seriously, a necromancer named Sherry? Not likely."

"Fine," Derek sighs. "Anything else you'd like to tell us?"

Erica grins and nudges him in the side. He shakes his head and ducks slightly to hide his sudden blush. "Nope, nothing."

"Fine. Come on. I'm driving you home."

"Okay." It doesn't even occur to him to argue. He probably freaked them all out with the passing out thing, more so than the magic thing. Derek deserves a little mother hen time.

The ride home is awkwardly tense. Derek turns the radio on low, the music a bare murmur as they drive. Thankfully it's not too far from the loft to Stiles's house. His dad's car isn't in the driveway when Derek pulls into Stiles's usual parking spot. Derek throws the Jeep into park and gets out, apparently intent on seeing Stiles all the way to the door. He doesn't bother to ask how Derek is getting home. The answer is simple—werewolf.

"Thanks," Stiles says awkwardly. He means more than just driving him home and not taking Stiles's head off.

Derek grunts. He unlocks the door for Stiles, hands him his keys, and then presses Stiles against the doorframe with a fierce kiss. Derek moves so sudden and certain, like they do this all the time. Stiles flails with his hands waving in the air around them before opening his mouth into the kiss and settling his hands tentatively on Derek's hips.

When Derek pulls back, the doorframe is the only thing keeping Stiles upright.

"For the record," Derek says, "you're not hopeless."

"Nope," Stiles agrees dumbly. He'll agree with anything Derek says right now. "Definitely not."

Derek grins as he walks away into the dark. Stiles stays for far too long watching him go before sliding off the doorframe and inside, locking the door behind him.

* * *

He texts Erica first thing in the morning, telling her about the kiss. She doesn't respond back, but it's early on Saturday morning so she's probably either asleep or cuddling with Boyd.

He heads to Cassandra's shop, grabbing drive-thru breakfast on the way since his dad isn't up yet for Stiles to bother cooking. She's there, like Stiles knew she would be. She runs the shop mostly by herself with Lind filling in as needed. He waits until the preteen buying a love spell kit leaves before leaning on the counter.

"Can we talk?"

She smiles. "Of course."

"What do you know about necromancers?"

Her smile instantly inverts. "That's not the kind of magic anyone should be dealing with. It's dark. You could lose your soul doing it."

He holds up his hands. "Not me. I'm not that dumb. Someone else is. Know anyone who might fit the bill?"

She shakes her head. "I don't associate with the type." Her frown deepens. "You've seen something?"

He nods. "Regular night of the living dead last night. Been going on for a few weeks as far as I can tell. Whoever it is, they're getting stronger."

"Sherry's ex was fascinated with the stuff, but he left town." She grabs a business card and writes Sherry's full name and number on the back of the card. "You can try giving her a call. I haven't seen her in a while, but that's not unusual. She travels a lot for her job."

He takes the card. "Thanks."

He turns to go, but she stops him. "Stiles." She pulls a thin book out from under the counter. It looks like a journal, though not quite like the two spellbooks he has at home. "A friend of mine found this. I thought it might be useful to you."

He flips to the first page and his jaw hits the floor. It's a book on werewolves and associated magic. "How'd you know?"

"The pack bond, even on mortals, leaves a distinct mark. The others don't know, but I've seen that mark before."

He nods. "Deaton."

Her smile is back. "And others."

He takes the book. "Thanks. How much?"

"On the house. Coven discount."

He grins. "Thanks. I owe you one. If you ever need my help, or that of my sometimes-furry friends, just give me a call."

He can't wait to get home and tear into the book.

His phone explodes with texts from Erica before he even reaches his Jeep.

* * *

John is awake when Stiles gets home. He looks at Stiles over his coffee. "Out late last night?"

"Busted." Stiles grins. It's not like the truth is going to get him in trouble this time. "Disturbance at the cemetery. All taken care of."

"That explains the calls I got. Know anything about someone setting off fireworks."

Stiles's grin fades. "Yeah. About that. That was me." He turns and points at a decorative candle on the wall. "See that." He snaps his fingers, mostly for effect, but it's also useful as a focal point. The candle flickers to life, as easy as breathing. It's like the sudden explosion of magic last night leveled him up. The minor tricks he'd been struggling with are just that, minor. He snuffs it out after a second. "I may have been learning magic."

John sighs but doesn't look angry or disappointed, just bemused. "When I suggested you learn self-defense, I didn't mean this."

Stiles shrugs. "It's more useful. And I'm going to start up one of the other classes soon. My leg's feeling up to one of the lighter courses. Probably gonna save the martial arts until next year though." He pulls the card Cassandra gave him out of his pocket. "So, speaking of, I may have joined a coven—a group of magic users, nothing dark. Less Practical Magic, more knitting circle minus the knitting." John snorts and rolls his eyes but doesn't comment. "Mostly tea and shop talk, really. One of them might know something about what happened last night but she hasn't been seen in a while and she's not answering her phone." He slides the card across the table. "Do you think you can look into it for me?"

His dad pockets the card. "Sure thing." He shoots Stiles a stern look. "Next time you join a coven or start learning magic or the like, you tell me first, okay. No more secrets."

"No more secrets," Stiles promises. He hesitates. "So I should probably tell you that Derek kissed me."

"He what!?" John almost spills his coffee as he fumbles with the mug.

"Last night." Stiles holds up his hand at his dad's look. "Don't worry. It was the first time. Nothing inappropriate. No bad touching. But, yeah, you were right, Derek likes me."

John sighs. He rubs and hand over his face. "You really don't do news half-assed, do you? Well, I can't say I'm surprised, since we already talked about this. Just remember, keep it PG and no sex until you're eighteen. I mean that."

Stiles can feel his face go red. He almost falls off his stool. "Yeah. I don't think you have to worry about that. Considering the pace we've been going, glaciers move faster than me and Derek."

"Keep it that way."

"Yes, sir."

At least eighteen is only a few months away.

* * *

Derek answers the door with a frown. He takes one look at Stiles and then turns, leaving the door open behind him.

"Hey," Stiles says. "Can we talk?" He closes the door behind him and looks around the loft, searching for Isaac.

"It seems we already are."

"Haha. Seriously." Derek turns to stare at him. "Is Isaac home?"

"No."

"Cool." Stiles fidgets with the hem of his shirt. He wants to move closer, into Derek's hemisphere, but he's not sure of his welcome. "That makes this slightly less awkward. Sooo, about last night..."

"Stiles..." A look of regret crosses Derek's face and Stiles just can't.

"No." He cuts in before Derek can speak. "If you're thinking of letting me down gently just... don't. You kissed me. FYI, I'm totally down with that. We can do more of that. All you want. Especially with the tongue. The tongue was good. So good. More of that, if you want."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "Are you done?"

"I reserve the right for further verbal angst."

Derek steps closer, finally, and it's all Stiles can do not to sway into him. "Is that what you're calling it now?"

"Verbal diarrhea isn't the sexiest term."

"Agreed."

Stiles flops down onto the couch. "So, is this the part where you let me down?"

Derek settles onto the couch next to him. It reminds him of the day Danny was over. "Do you want me to let you down?"

Stiles's eyes go wide. "Of course not! Did you miss the message? I'm kinda into you in a major way."

"I'm kinda into you." Derek leans closer.

Their lips brush and it's just as good as the first time. Derek keeps going, pushing into Stiles's space until Stiles is pressed against the arm rest, being held up mostly by Derek's arms around him. He moans into the kiss and shifts, twisting his body so that his legs are up on the couch. Derek gets with it to, moving between Stiles's legs and pulling Stiles down until they're lying on the couch, bodies flush.

Derek rolls his hips and it sends a wave of warmth through Stiles. He pulls his lips away. "Wait. Stop."

Derek leans back with a frown. He starts to pull away completely but Stiles grabs at him, getting a fistful of Derek's Henley but at least it stops him.

Stiles sits up, his legs still around Derek but with less groin touchy. "No. It's not... You didn't do anything wrong. You did things very right. Extremely right. It's just..." He waves a hand at himself, blushing terribly. "Virgin. I'd like... can we go slow?"

The tension in Derek's demeanor relaxes and he nods. "Yeah. Of course. Sorry."

"Don't be." Stiles squeezes one of Derek's hands. "I want... you know. Totally all for that. I'm just not, well, not ready, you know?"

Derek nods. A bit of the grin from last night is back and he squeezes Stiles's hand. "Yeah. Slow is fine."

Stiles breaths a sigh of relief. "Good, because I'm not eighteen for four months and my dad may have implied he'd shoot you if we did anything age inappropriate before then."

Derek huffs a laugh and gives Stiles a 'bring it' look.

"Don't even," Stiles says with grin. "May I remind you that my dad knows about werewolves now, especially the whole wolfsbane allergy thing? I wouldn't put it past him to get a stock of special bullets from the Argents."

Derek's smug look fades.

"Yeah, sorry." Stiles rearranges them so that he's sitting in Derek's lap. Still intimate but less groin touchy to set him off. "Now, I believe we were in the middle of something. I vote for more kissing."

There is more kissing. Stiles can totally get used to kissing.


	8. Chapter 8

"Pay up, boys and girls." Erica says as she sets her tray down at lunch on Monday. "Boyd won the pool."

Jackson nearly snorts his milk. Lydia looks exceptionally pleased about something and Scott kind of looks nauseous. Danny whistles appreciatively.

"You didn't," Scott says.

"Depends what I didn't," Stiles says back before biting into a fry.

"Well they didn't have sex at the loft. I would have smelled that."

Stiles shoots Isaac a look. "Creeepy. And no, there was no sex. Underage son of the sheriff, bee tee dubs. There will be no sex for a while." Scott looks relieved which makes Stiles glare because he totally knows that Scott and Allison used to get it on regularly. "But we are dating, so you all can just get used to that or gtfo."

Isaac raises his hands defensively. "I've got no problems. Whatever you two want to do is your business." He pauses. "As long as it's not in my bed. And maybe open the windows after."

"Congratulations," Lydia says, and she seems actually genuinely pleased for him. Danny echoes the sentiment and then there's a chorus of the like from around the table. The only two who seem to have any issue are Jackson, who probably thought Stiles would remain a dateless wonder his entire high school career, and Scott, who seems to be having trouble connecting Stiles and Derek in his head.

They'll both come around, Stiles knows. Scott sooner. His brain just needs time to adjust. Jackson will get over whatever his issue is. That, or Derek will make him. Maybe by kissing Stiles in front of him. Mmm, kissing.

"Earth to Stiles."

He blushes and turns back to the conversation. "Sorry."

Lydia pokes his forehead with her nail. "So. Coven. Dish. I want to know more about it."

He shrugs. "Think of it like pack, only for magic users. There's no pack bond, not unless we're in a circle—umm, that's kind of ritual space, usually literally a circle, holding hands—and it's only temporary but man is it a rush. I envy you guys for having that kind of connection."

Erica and Scott bump his shoulders from either side.

"Are they all losers like you?" Jackson asks, snide. Everyone else at the table glares at him and he wilts a little. Lydia elbows his side in addition and Stiles gets momentary warm fuzzies from the unexpected camaraderie.

"No. Cassandra owns Raven—that occult shop on Fifth—and lives above it. She's the High Priestess. The leader, sort of the focal center for the group. Jill's studying Anthropology at Beacon College. She's a pretty good source for mythology and magical theory but rocky on the practical side. You'd probably like her Lydia, you have similar brains and fashion sense." Lydia preens in a way that says he totally has to get Lydia and Jill together soon. They'd BFF it up together. "Lind is the stereotypical Goth. She goes to school at Beacon Memorial and minds the shop when Cassandra's gone. She fits right in with the Hot Topic wannabes but she's packing serious juice. I mean, no joke, she's got skills. Andrew looks like the typical pot-smoking hippie, but he's deep. He seems to know a little bit about everything metaphysical. Like Jill, he can't do much on his own but he's like a living Duracell battery. Then there's Sherry, who I haven't met yet."

"Sounds like a pretty varied group," Allison says with a smile.

Stiles shrugs. "Yeah. Kinda like us. I mean, who would have pictured us all together if it weren't for the fuzzy thing."

There's a few nods from around the table.

The conversation shifts but Stiles's brain is stuck on how different his life would be if it weren't for the whole werewolf thing. Sometimes it seems like a curse, but without it, Derek would probably never give him the time of day. Stiles and Scott would be lonely bros forever. Allison would probably never have moved here. Lydia still wouldn't be talking to him. Jackson will forever be a jerk but Stiles is slowly starting to think of him as their jerk. Isaac would still have his crap dad. Erica would still have epilepsy, and Boyd would still be a loner.

Maybe the whole werewolf thing isn't so bad in the long run. Things could be worse. At least none of them are dead. Yet.

* * *

"I have bad news for you," John says as Stiles walks in the door.

Stiles drops his school bag by the staircase and heads into the kitchen, bypassing the table John is sitting at in favor of grabbing the milk jug from the fridge and downing a swing. His eyebrows ask the question his mouth is too busy to.

John stands and turns to Stiles with his Sheriff face. Stiles slowly lowers the milk. "I found your friend Sherry," John says.

Stiles wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. A feeling of dread pools in his stomach, and he can practically feel the milk curdling inside him, even though he knows that's not how it works, that's just his mind and his worries but he's got a lot to worry about, sue him. "She's dead, isn't she?" He knows before the words are finished falling out of his mouth what the answer is.

John nods. "I'm sorry, kid."

Stiles frowns. He puts the milk back woodenly and falls into a chair. His mind is full of questions, like which mad lunatic that's still alive and wants to hurt Stiles did it this time? He never met Sherry but he still feels a sense of loss from her passing. She was a friend of his new magical friends and that counts for something. The coven is going to mourn her. "How'd she die?" He almost doesn't want to know, but he needs to.

"She was stabbed. Some hikers found her body in the Preserve."

Stiles falls back against the chair and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn't need any more information to know something fishy is going on. The only bad things in the Preserve are werewolves and those are all his friends. At least, as far as he knows, but a werewolf wouldn't stab someone. A hunter might, but she's no one. She's not connected to the pack.

People don't just end up in the middle of the woods with stab wounds. What was she doing in the Preserve in the first place? He can't help but think that there's some sort of connection between her death and the necromancer. Cassandra had said Sherry'd had a boyfriend who was interested in that stuff. It's not a huge logical leap to think Sherry's ex is their guy.

"When did you say she died?"

"A little over a month ago. There was severe decomposition, according to the coroner."

"Around when the zombies started showing up," Stiles muses out loud.

"You think they're connected?"

"A witch dies and then zombies start showing up?" Stiles looks at his dad. "In what version of Beacon Hills are those two things not connected?"

John shakes his head in a way that's becoming more and more frequent since he learned about werewolves and all the other weird shit that goes on in Beacon Hills. Stiles calls it the 'this is my life' headshake.

"We'll get to the bottom of it," John says.

Stiles can't help but think that they're not going to like it when they do.

* * *

Stiles waits until the coven is all together before breaking the news. Well, almost all together. Jill is running late, which isn't unusual, but in light of recent news her absence puts a bad taste in Stiles's mouth. He's been twitching with nerves since he showed up and it's obvious to Cassandra, at least, that he has news.

"Out with it," she says, fifteen minutes after the meeting is supposed to start.

Stiles's mouth opens and closes twice before he can force the words out. "Sherry's dead."

Cassandra gasps. There's an echo of the same from Andrew and Lind. "What? How? Why?"

Stiles shakes his head. "I don't know. My dad said she was found in the Preserve. Stabbed. I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

"It was her ex," Lind says. She snaps her bubblegum. While she doesn't look terribly sad, she at least seems more glum than usual. "He did it."

"Okay," Stiles says. "I'm sure my dad is already looking into it, but I'll make sure he knows."

"It's not Dave," Cassandra says. "He was a nice boy, if a little misguided." It's a less than stellar recommendation. Stiles has met plenty of people who were a little misguided who ended up going bad. Jackson was just a little misguided when he was the kanima and trying to kill them all. Matt was just a little misguided when he stalked Allison and killed the old swim team. He could probably even say that Peter was misguided in killing his niece and all the people involved in killing the Hales, though the last part Stiles kind of agrees with.

Stiles makes a mental note to make sure his dad follows up on this Dave guy.

Andrew has his phone out. Stiles can hear it ringing, but no one picks up. It starts to go to voicemail. Andrew hangs up and tries again. "Jill isn't answering."

"We should try a locator spell." Cassandra stands and moves towards the wooden cabinets that line the far wall.

"You can do that?" Stiles' brain goes to all the ways being able to locate someone by spell would come in handy.

"As long as you have something of theirs." Cassandra returns to the table with a map and a lock of hair in a plastic baggie.

"I'm guessing you're going to be asking for some of my hair soon," Stiles says. He's somewhat wary about it, because there's a lot of things you can do with someone's hair, or so he's been reading, but it's also kind of cool because it means there's another group that potentially has his back.

"We usually do about the three-month mark," Cassandra says as she spreads the map out over the table, pinning the corners down with their teacups. She places the hair on the map and pulls a pendulum from her pocket. That goes on the map next to them. "Let's circle."

They join hands. Cassandra hums to focus them, though she's hardly started before that increasingly familiar jolt hits him. Warmth spreads through him and they lower their hands. Cassandra picks up the hair in one hand and the pendulum in the other. She lets the pendulum hang loose from her fingers. It sways over the map, swinging back and forth in an irregular pattern.

"Concentrate on Jill. Concentrate on our connection to her. Concentrate on finding her."

Stiles closes his eyes and pictures Jill. He doesn't know her well, but he likes her. He doesn't want anything bad to happen to her.

When he opens his eyes again, the pendulum is swinging in a large oval over the map, listing heavily to one side. Cassandra's hand moves in the direction the pendulum is swinging. The oval shrinks to a circle until the pendulum is barely moving at all, centered over a small section of the warehouse district not far from Jungle.

Cassandra's eyes lift from the map to fix on Stiles. "Can I call in that favor with your friends? I have a bad feeling about this. Jill may be in danger."

"Of course," Stiles says. The connection of the circle fades as he stands and steps away to pull out his cellphone. Derek answers on the first ring. "Round up the troops. We've got a problem."

* * *

Stiles gets to the warehouse district first. The map hadn't been detailed enough to narrow down to one building but Stiles has Jill's hair with him. He may not be a full circle unto himself but he's still a Spark. He thinks he can at least narrow it down now that he's closer, or at the very least he can try. It gives him something to do besides sit in his Jeep and worry while he waits for the pack to show up.

He gets out of the Jeep. The slam of his door echoes off the buildings around him. The entire area feels empty but he knows that it isn't. It's dark. The others are on the way.

He breathes deep and closes his eyes. He grips Jill's hair tight in one hand and concentrates.

At first there's nothing. He's afraid it didn't work, that he failed. Then he feels it, faint at first but growing stronger as he walks. It's just a faint tug, like someone pulling on his clothing but from the inside. He moves towards it, following the tug until it gets stronger. It leads him to the second warehouse on the right.

He pauses with his hand on the door. He shouldn't. He knows he should wait for the others but he can't help himself. He has to know. He pushes the door open.

It's dark inside. He steps forward cautiously, leaving the door open behind him to let in light from the streetlamps while his eyes adjust. Something rustles in the dark. He tries to tell himself that it's probably just rats, but really, when is it ever just rats? He hears the noise again, closer, and panics.

Light erupts in the room as fire flares to life in the palm of his hand. He can see more of the warehouse now. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a female figure slumped in a chair, but sudden motion draws his attention to the side. Something lunges at him. No, not something, someone or what used to be someone. The thing has pale skin, pallid and partially decayed. It opens its mouth to reveal two rows of rotten teeth, some of which are missing.

Stiles shouts. The fire roars in his palm, singeing the nachzehrer and sending it rearing back. Stiles ducks under a swing and rolls to the side. The fire goes out.

His first try to bring the fire back fails. He can hear the nachzehrer moving towards him in the darkness so he runs... right into the chair Jill is tied to. They both topple over. Stiles's head smacks against the cement floor hard enough for him to see stars but at least the fire starts again, giving him an up close and personal view of Jill's slit throat.

Stiles screams and scrambles back. He runs into what he thinks is a pillar but then he looks up into the dead eyes of the nachzehrer. It screeches, a sound that goes straight through him like nails on a chalkboard. Two hands grip his shirt, lifting and turning him. He flails, manages to set the thing's shirt on fire, but it just ignores the burning fabric as it brings Stiles's mouth close to its own. Stiles tries to pull away but the nachzehrer is strong. It sucks in a breath of air and Stiles feels something inside of him pulling lose and draining away. His life force. It drinks deep, sucking in air until Stiles's head swims.

There's a sound behind him. The nachzehrer stops and drops him. Stiles's head lolls to the side. In the dim light he can make out two feet coming closer. The man attached to the feet bends down and Stiles wants to scream as Gerard Argent smiles at him.

Instead, he passes out.


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles wakes tied to a chair. His hand hurts worse than when Gerard stepped on it. The pain makes it hard to concentrate. Not just the pain, though. This is more than that. He's nauseous, possibly from a concussion but he feels somehow less. Like he's lost part of himself and his mind is reeling, trying to fill the hole of nothingness inside of him.

He wants to throw up. He thinks he might and starts to lean forward but he can't move anything beside his head, and even that's an effort. His arms are double-bound at the wrists and elbows. His legs are bound at the ankle and knee. There are more ropes around his torso, keeping his arms pinned and his chest locked to the chair.

He groans. It's not a purposeful sound. It's not even a conscious one. If he were in his right mind, he'd try to keep quiet, at least until he knew where he was and what was going on. Footsteps sound nearby, reminding him that he's not alone.

"Welcome back." A shiver crawls up Stiles's spine. He'd hoped to never have to hear that voice again. He has to blink twice before Gerard Argent's smiling face solidifies in front of him. "Here I was hoping I'd killed you the first time, but it seems fortune had another fate in store."

Stiles attempts a witty response. All that comes out is a garbled mess of unintelligible sounds.

"Yes, it seems Dave here really takes something out of you, doesn't he?" Gerard's hand lands on the rotting corpse like it's an old friend and Stiles nearly retches at the thought of that thing touching him.

Fuck, Dave. He'd found Sherry's ex, though that hadn't been his goal. Fuck. Poor guy. Stiles wonders if it was accidental death or suicide that got him. He doesn't have to wonder who raised him. Gerard had tried to force an Alpha to bite him. It's a short leap from there to willingly raising the dead.

He blinks again and rears back. Now that Gerard is closer and standing in better light, Gerard does not look good. There are black veins all over his face, probably the rest of him too, and his eyes… his eyes aren't there. Not really. They're just hollow pools of black goo.

Stiles shivers and turns his face away. He doesn't want to look at Gerard. He doesn't want to see what Gerard's become.

"What's the matter? Don't like what your friends did to me?" There's a snarl in Gerard's voice. The way he says 'friends' is rife with the promise of murder.

Stiles shakes his head and then realizes that was a very bad idea. It makes the nausea worse and the whole world spin. "They didn't do that. You did."

Gerard snorts. "If Scott had just let me kill Derek, none of this would have happened. I would have spared his betas, made them mine." Gerard leans closer and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut in fear. Even without the ropes he knows just how helpless he is against Gerard. He's already had that proven. "I'm going to kill all of them." Gerard's breath is rancid, like rot and decay.

"No," Stiles moans. It's not a denial. He knows there's nothing he can do to stop Gerard, not like this. Unless….

Stiles tries to move his hands and summon flame. He's done this before. He did it at the warehouse. His hands refuse to cooperate. He can't even move them. The very attempt hurts, blindingly, and he can't hold back the whimper of pain that escapes him.

Gerard just laughs. "Witches aren't much use without their hands, I've found."

"They'll find me," Stiles says. He knows it. They can't have gone far. It's a smaller room, maybe a different warehouse, but he knows the pack will find him, no matter where Gerard has them.

Gerard laughs again. "I'm counting on it."

Dread settles deep in Stiles bones.

* * *

He dozes. Or, more accurately, he floats, held adrift in a sea of fear and pain. He tries to summon a fire. It won't do any good against the nachzehrer guarding him but it'll make him feel better, a little less useless. His usual tricks don't work. He's used to using his hands and they're broken, probably. He's going to hate life with double casts. Assuming he lives that long.

It doesn't matter. Nothing works. He tries chanting, going back to the very start of his studies but every time he gets more than a few words out, the nachzehrer hits him. He only tries twice and that's enough to set his ears ringing and fill his mouth with the taste of blood.

He thinks he may have lost a tooth.

So he waits, immobile and defenseless, while his friends try to find him, to save him. He hopes they were paying attention when he told them about the nachzehrer. He hopes to God someone has change because they're going to need at least one coin to stop this thing and Stiles is pretty sure Gerard emptied Stiles's pockets. He can't feel his phone or his wallet at any rate.

He's startled awake by a loud bang. He jumps, jerking against his bonds, and then again as another bang hits somewhere behind him. Then he hears a growl and his heart jumps to his throat.

"Guys…" He starts to shout a warning but the nachzehrer grabs his mouth. Stiles gags. Its fingers dig into his cheeks.

There's a roar behind him and light comes flooding into the dark room. Four shapes move, rising from a crouch at the edges of the room. Shit. Wights. The nachzehrer releases Stiles, backhands him again to keep him quiet, and then snarls a challenge back at the werewolves.

Chaos erupts around him. Stiles is distantly aware of flying bodies. Of claws and fangs leaping, rending, tearing. Of people being thrown back into walls. The wights have gotten stronger. There's a bright burst of flame as one goes up and he thinks, oh, good, Lydia's here with her Molotov cocktails.

Hands grab at him. He feels some of the ropes at his back go loose, but then the nachzehrer bats his rescuers away. It picks Stiles up, chair and all, and sends him flying to the far end of the room.

The chair breaks before Stiles does, but it's a near thing. He thinks he blacks out. When he comes too he's twisted strangely, face pressed against the floor but lower half still tied to the remnants of the chair. One of his arms is loose, still with chair parts tied to it but no longer connected. He reaches forward blindly. For his friends. For Derek.

He wants to help. He needs to help.

The fire doesn't come. He's too broken. He has to fight to concentrate, to make the blurry shapes resolve into individual people. Two of the wights are gone. It looks like Danny and Jackson are finishing off one while Isaac and Erica have the other. When the hell did Danny turn furry? There was supposed to be a party. He missed the party.

Scott, Derek, and Boyd are fighting the nachzehrer and it's not going good. The thing's throwing them around like toys. They didn't remember. Fuck. One of them should have remembered.

"Coin." He forces the word out. It doesn't sound right. He tries again. "Coin."

Erica reaches a hand in her pocket and throws a handful of change into the fray. Most of it bounces of off the werewolves. None of it makes it into the nachzehrer's mouth.

He hears the others cursing. A third wight is down and Jackson and Danny scramble for coins. The thing bites Jackson when he tries to shove a coin in its mouth and Jackson howls. The nachzehrer laughs.

Its mouth is open. He just needs… Stiles needs… He sees the coins glinting on the floor, tiny metal stars, and he just needs one of them to move. Like the pencil. He can do this. Just like the pencil.

The nachzehrer throws Scott out the opening the wolves had made to get in. There's a distant thud. Derek and Boyd tackle the nachzehrer. It rocks on its feet, barely, then roars and throws them both aside.

Move the coin. Just move the coin.

He thinks one of the quarters twitches.

The final wight is gone. The whole pack descends. There are hands everywhere, grabbing at the thing and trying to hold it. It takes most of the pack to hold it, but it still thrashes, somehow keeping anyone from getting a coin in its mouth.

Move the coin.

The nachzehrer goes still. For a moment he thinks one of the pack got a coin in but none of their hands are near its mouth.

He moved the coin.

Stiles slumps against the cold cement floor. He doesn't really want to see the pack tear the thing's head off. Hearing it is bad enough. He feels it though, like a pop in the air, when the nachzehrer's head comes loose and all the life force it'd been holding inside is released. He gasps when it hits him, his whole body tensing up and shaking like he'd been jolted with electricity.

A hand twists in his hair and he screams as he's pulled upright. "I'm impressed," Gerard Argent says from behind Stiles and vaguely upward. "I didn't think any of you would make it this far."

"You sound like the villain in a bad made-for-TV movie," Erica taunts. Her hands are on her hips, claws showing, and there's blood soaked into her white tank-top.

Something glints off to Stiles's right and he whimpers. Not again. He can't handle any more pain.

Derek lunges and then stumbles to a halt as something sharp pricks Stiles in the neck. He wants to look down but the hold Gerard has on his hair. He knows it's a knife, that's obvious, but there's something about the tiny bit he can see that makes it look off.

"One wrong move and I'll slit his throat." Gerard laughs. It's a wet sick sound. "He'll die, of course, but this knife is special." Stiles can see the pack shifting, fighting against the urge to move closer and take Gerard down. They could do it. They have the numbers. Stiles almost tells them to, regardless of what will happen to him, then Gerard finishes his villainous monologue. "He'll die and his powers will come to me. Imagine what I could do with a Spark's power. A whole army of undead and-"

A gunshot splits the air, too loud and too close. Blood splatters against his face, dripping down his neck, and he can feel the scream building inside of him. The hand in his hair goes slack. The knife too. He thinks he hears it shatter as it hits the concrete.

Stiles falls but he doesn't go far. Two sets of hands catch him and it's like a tide of wolves have been unleashed. He sees Chris Argent and Allison above him, lowering him to the ground away from Gerard's corpse. Then there are hands all around him, claws cutting the ropes loose and deft fingers pulling the cords away.

He keeps falling. The hands are like a safety net and he allows himself to let go, trusting that they'll hold him safe. His pack will keep him safe.

He slips into darkness but he doesn't feel alone.

* * *

Stiles wakes once more in the hospital and groans. John jerks upright in his chair and blinks awake. It feels like deja vu of the unpleasant kind.

John's smile as he sits up is forced. "Hey, kiddo."

Stiles looks down and yep, both of his hands are in casts. "Fuck."

John's frown is instant. "Language."

Stiles raises his double casts with a frustrated groan.

John rolls his eyes. "Okay. Fair." He lays a hand on Stiles's shoulder and squeezes. "How are you feeling otherwise?"

Stiles flops his head back against the pillows and stares at the fluorescent light overhead. He swallows heavily. "He's dead, right? Please-"

"He's dead. Coin in mouth, head chopped off, and burned to a crisp. A little bit overkill I thought, but Chris and Derek were adamant."

Stiles snorts. That's probably the first and last thing Derek Hale and Chris Argent will ever agree on. He's kind of sad he missed it.

Maybe Scott videotaped it for him. Scott's good like that.

"I know you're not supposed to speak ill of the dead," Stiles says, "but good riddance."

John leans back in his chair. "I think that's a sentiment shared by a lot of folks." He looks at Stiles for a long moment. "We found your friend, Jill Sayers. One of the bodies in the warehouse… his name-"

Stiles waves an immobile arm. "Dave. I know."

"Do I want to know how he became that thing?"

"Probably not." Stiles shrugs. It feels weird with plaster holding down his hands. "I don't even really know and I kind of prefer it that way. Less nightmare fuel."

A flash of pity and regret crosses John's face.

"I know what you're thinking," Stiles says. John raises a pointed eyebrow. "You're thinking that you wished I'd never gotten wrapped up in all of this. That I didn't have to see or even know about any of the horrible things that are out there."

"I think all parents want that for their children. Beacon Hills is just…" John pauses, struggles for the right word.

"A Hellmouth?"

John doesn't get the reference and then gets even more confused when Stiles tries to explain. They decide to just go with it.

"It doesn't matter," Stiles says. "I've been in the thick of it since day one. I was the one who dragged Scott out into the woods. I'm the reason he got bitten." John starts to protest but Stiles keeps going. "And that's okay. It turned out for the better. I think all of the wolves are better for having been bitten, I'm just saying it was never a choice. I was the one who figured out Scott was a werewolf, long before he even figured it out, but we're not alone anymore. We've got a pack now and we all take care of each other." Stiles grins. "I made a quarter move."

John's expression softens and he pats Stiles's leg. At least those are fine, if a little bruised. "Alright." He stands slowly, his hand lingering on Stiles's leg. "Should I let the hoard in now?"

Stiles grins. He doesn't even have to say anything before Scott and Erica are in the doorway, fighting to be the first one through. Derek just picks them up by the back of their shirts and marches them forward. He looks straight at Stiles. His lips quirk and he rolls his eyes as he lets the betas loose.

Erica practically tackles him, making Stiles yip in pain as his bruises are jostled. John huffs out a laugh and clasps Derek on the shoulder as he walks out. "Keep an eye on him," John says. There's something in the tone of his voice, in the way he says it, that implies more than just right now, more than this moment.

Derek and Stiles both blush, eyes still locked with each other. Erica squirms under an arm, swatting at Scott as he tries to get close, and Stiles can't help but laugh.

This is his pack. Not the pack that only uses him for research. Not that pack that are allies only for convenience. This is the pack he earned, not with might or magic, but just by being Stiles.

That's all he ever needed.

Derek smiles at him and Stiles smiles back and he thinks things are going to be okay now. He thinks he might be okay.


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles's is used to his birthday being a quiet affair with Scott, usually his dad and Melissa if they're not working. This year there's a whole party in the backyard with balloons and hot dogs and people singing Happy Birthday as cheesily as possible—namely Erica, Scott, and for some reason Isaac gets really into it. Erica makes him a cake that's a cherry vanilla abomination of fruit and frosting but tastes sooo good.

There are presents. So many presents. His dad gets him two new video games that he's been dying to play. Melissa and Scott get him movies. Lydia gets him clothes "that actually fit, you fashion disaster" and Erica gets him a sex toy that he immediately shoves back in the box and behind the couch while his dad pretends that he saw nothing. Isaac has a shit-eating grin when he hands Stiles a gift bag with a scarf in it. Boyd got him matching mittens and a hat. Jackson throws a gift card at his head and then Stiles's eyes bug and he chokes on air as he looks at the denomination.

Derek hands him a small box that he thinks contains another gift card or maybe jewelry, but he opens it to find a single key inside. Stiles's eyes shoot up to meet Derek, who's smirking, and then he has to look away before his face ignites from blushing.

He doesn't let go of the box for almost an hour.

* * *

Isaac had made very pointed comments about having a sleepover at Scott's. Stiles is pretty sure Allison's going to be there too and he doesn't want to think too much on how that's going to work out. He uses the key Derek gave him to let himself into the loft. He's somewhat amazed as the key turns in the lock. For some reason, he hadn't entirely expected it to work.

He steps inside and the bed that takes up the center of the loft catches his eyes. He can't seem to look away as he slides the door shut behind him and flicks the lock. There's a cough off to his right and Stiles startles, jumping nearly a foot in the air and turning red as he finds Derek watching him with a smirk.

Derek's coming out of the kitchenette with a glass of water but he sets that aside and crosses the floor to slip his arms around Stiles. "Hey."

"Hey," Stiles says back, and then says nothing at all as his lips are captured in a deep kiss.

Stiles melts. He loves kissing Derek. He loves being kissed by Derek—the way it makes his knees weak and his skin tingle. He leans into the kiss. His bag falls to the floor as his hands settle low on Derek's back.

Then Derek tilts his head just right and his tongue is inside of Stiles's mouth. Derek's hands slip under Stiles's clothing, one pressing against his spine and the other sliding low to grab his ass. He squeaks. He always does. He doesn't think he's ever going to get used to someone touching his ass, let alone wanting to touch his ass.

It's not as weird as it used to be. True to his word, Derek has been keeping things slow. Sort of. They've been ramping things up a bit, getting more exploratory but things have mostly stayed above the belt.

Stiles has a feeling that's going to change tonight.

He squeaks a second time as Derek breaks the kiss to dip low and grab the back of his thighs. He's lifted off of his feet and it gives him a strange sort of thrill as Derek supports all of Stiles's weight in his arms.

"You like that?" Derek tugs slightly, pulling Stiles close and making Stiles's growing erection drag against Derek's washboard abs.

Stiles shudders and presses his flaming face into Derek's shoulder. He nods.

"Later," Derek says, his voice low and husky right next to Stiles's ear, "I'll hold you up against the wall and fuck you. And I'll take my time, do whatever I want to you because you won't be able to move, just take it."

Stiles whimpers—the good kind of whimper—and nearly comes in his pants. Derek's not really a vocal person but when they're together, when it's just them and Derek's hot with desire, he suddenly seems to find all of the words he lacks at other times of the day. "Yes. Please."

The world tilts as Derek lowers him gently onto the mattress. It's a feeling that should be scary, because he's kind of falling, but Derek's arms are around him and he knows Derek isn't going to drop him. He's pretty sure the blush on his face is there to stay. Derek leans back and all he has to do is look at Stiles to make Stiles's insides squirm in anticipation.

Warm fingers slide under the hem of his shirt, lifting it up and away. Stiles raises his arms but doesn't offer any further assistance. He kind of likes letting Derek take care of him.

"Did you have a happy birthday?" Derek asks. He's smiling. It's becoming less and less rare to see Derek smile but it still hits Stiles right in the heart every time he sees it.

"I did. Thank you."

Derek peels his shirt off in a way that makes Stiles's pants too tight. Well, tighter. He knows it's just a normal way of pulling off his shirt, and on any other guy it'd be normal, boring even, but Derek makes it look like he's a stripper putting on a show just for Stiles. Then there are those abs and his muscles.

Stiles wants to lick them. He has licked them. Derek had to leave the room for a few minutes and jerk off because Stiles licked them.

Stiles grins and starts to lean up but Derek places a hand on his chest and pushes him back down onto the mattress. Derek's hands land on Stiles's fly and Stiles freezes for a moment.

They're doing this. They're really doing this.

Fucking finally.

He nods and then Derek's leaning down, pressing his lips to the sensitive skin around Stiles's bellybutton. Derek draws Stiles's zipper down and his mouth presses lower, against the waistband of Stiles's boxers. Then Derek hooks his fingers in the fabric and it's being pulled away, leaving him naked and exposed.

Derek's mouth follows the expanse of newly revealed skin, kissing Stiles's stomach and hip, bypassing where Stiles really wants it to press a kiss against his knee and then his ankle. Derek stands, dropping Stiles's pants to the side and then shucking his own.

Derek wasn't wearing underwear.

All day, Derek was going commando. Stiles's brain short-circuits. He's pretty sure he makes a noise. He's staring at Derek's crotch, at the thick, uncut erection standing up proudly between Derek's legs.

He wants to put his mouth on it. He wants to touch it. He wants it inside of him. He's not sure which he wants more.

"Like what you see?" The smirk is back. Stiles isn't going to complain. Derek has a right to be cocky.

Heh. Cock.

Stiles licks his lips and looks up into Derek's intense gaze. "Yeah." He shifts his legs wider apart, inviting, giving Derek permission. "I have…" He looks away, face burning, "…things. In my bag."

The bed dips as Derek kneels on the edge, between Stiles's feet. "Things, you say? Maybe you're too young still if you can't even say it."

He knows Derek's teasing but it still gets a rise out of him. "Condoms. Lube. There. Happy?"

Derek crawls up the bed until he's looming over Stiles. "Very," he says, voice nearly a purr. He reaches up, hand sliding under one of the pillows just past where Stiles's head is on the mattress and returning with a bottle of lube. "I've got us covered. Did you want me to use a condom?"

"Not really." Every safe sex lecture Stiles has ever been told goes right out the window. The one and only time Stiles had seen Peter since he'd been resurrected, Peter had leaned over the back of the couch in the loft and stage-whispered to Stiles that werewolves can't carry STDs. So much for impending death from that front. Ever since then he's wondered what it would feel like to have Derek inside of him, no barriers.

"Alright," Derek says. He pops the cap and squirts a generous amount on his fingers.

This is it, Stiles thinks. This is where he loses his virginity. The lube is set aside and Derek's free hand settles on Stiles's hip. He thinks it's to hold him down while Derek preps him, but it's not. Not entirely. Derek's still warming the lube between his fingers as he leans down and takes Stiles's dick in his mouth.

Stiles shouts. There's no dignity about it. All of a sudden there's warm and wet around him and he has to clutch at the covers to keep from coming right on the spot. He's never felt anything like it. Obviously. He's a virgin in all aspects of the word. It feels amazing. Derek's sucking on him and Stiles can't even look. He tries. He looks down and sees Derek's closed eyes and hollowed cheeks and he has to look away.

He moans. He makes a lot of sounds. He's not exactly quiet on a normal day and sex seems to ratchet him up to eleven. He can't keep his mouth shut. Well, he probably could if Derek's dick was in it, but Derek's dick is elsewhere and it's actually his dick in Derek's mouth and oh, god, he's so close to coming. So close. He doesn't want it to end yet.

He probably said that last bit out loud because Derek pulls away with a wet pop. There's a slick finger circling his asshole and when the hell did that get there?

"It's okay," Derek says. He slides up a little and that slick hand trails upward with him, playing with his balls for a mind-blowing instant before closing around his cock. Stiles's whole body jerks, like he's been hit by lightning.

Derek leans on his elbow and lets his free hand play with the short strands of Stiles's hair. "It's okay," he says again, and the way he's looking at Stiles—so incredibly close—is soft and warm. "You can come for me." His hand glides over Stiles's dick like he knows the way, like he's done this before. Stiles shivers and tucks his face against Derek's shoulder. "Come on. You can let go. I'll catch you. I'll always catch you."

Stiles does. He lets go and instead of falling it feels like he's flying. His every nerve is electrified and he feels like he's simultaneously coming apart and pulling back together. Shudders wrack his body and he's gasping into Derek's skin, making quiet noises of pleasure. Derek holds him through it, pulling Stiles's body close and letting Stiles ride it out against Derek's skin.

He relaxes in parts, muscles loosening bit by bit as he falls back against the mattress. Derek's smiling at him, that soft smile that seems to be just for Stiles. "Feel good?"

Stiles smiles back. "Amazing."

"Do you want to-"

"Yes!" Stiles tugs at Derek's arm, making him chuckle as Stiles pulls Derek on top of him. "I want you to fuck me." He blushes after he realizes what just came out of his mouth. "I mean, as long as you still…"

Derek presses a kiss to Stiles's forehead. "Of course." The slick hand slides down again, past Stiles's balls to press against his entrance. Stiles shivers and spreads his legs wider.

The first press inside is strange. It feels invasive and a little painful, but he's not going to let a little pain stop him. He's talked to Danny. He knows it usually hurts a bit the first time, but after he gets used to it it's going to feel so, so good. Stiles wants to feel good. He wants to make Derek feel good. He wants Derek to come inside of him, to link their bodies together in a way that can never be taken back.

Derek kisses him. On the lips first and then down his cheek and his neck. Derek sucks there, in the hollow of this throat and bites lightly. Stiles moans and barely even registers that Derek has one finger inside of him.

It doesn't take long after that. Derek's going slow and taking his time, but Stiles keeps pushing for more. He knows he's probably going to be sore later and he can't even think about walking past his dad while he's all bow-legged, but right now he just wants Derek inside of him. He rolls his hips, pushing back against the one finger inside of him, then two, then more. He's wanton. It starts to feel good fast. He's not sure if that's because the last few months have given him a much higher pain tolerance or just because it's Derek and he trusts Derek and wants Derek.

"Look at you," Derek whispers as he's got four fingers inside of Stiles, rubbing against Stiles's insides and bumping that spot that makes Stiles choke back screams. "So responsive. It's like you were born for this."

"For you," Stiles corrects. "Gonna take you inside me. Make you come."

Derek groans and presses their foreheads together.

"Please, Derek." He hitches his hips up. He doesn't want the fingers anymore. He wants Derek. "Please. Fuck me, Derek. Please."

"Yeah." Derek's fingers pull out and then he's lining up. Stiles moans again as he feels the thick, blunt press of Derek's cock against his hole. He wraps his legs around Derek's hips and nudges him with his feet. Derek rolls his hips, making his cock nudge against him, almost pushing in. "Is this what you want?"

Stiles is not above begging, not when it makes Derek's eyes burn red and his fingers dig into Stiles's hips. "Yes. Please. Fuck me. Please. I need it. I need you."

"You need this?" Derek inches inside.

Stiles cries out. Fuck, that's good. He whines, low in his throat. "Yes," he says, the pressure of his feet against Derek's lower back urging him on. "Yes. Please."

Derek growls. There are definite claws against Stiles's skin but they don't prick him. For all that Derek's feral side seems to have come out at Stiles's urging, he's slow and gentle as he pushes his way into Stiles.

It's so good. Stiles has never felt anything like it. He's so full. He can feel Derek moving inside of him, a glacial push and pull at first that seems at odds with the way Stiles feels hot and frantic. He writhes while Derek stays controlled. He's losing his mind. He needs more. His head rolls back as he arches into one of Derek's thrusts. He's so, so glad Isaac isn't here because the noises he makes are desperate and embarrassing. He's already come once but he can feel a second orgasm rising up on him.

"Derek. Please. Please. I need you. I need you, Derek."

That seems to spur Derek on a little faster. Then Stiles looks up into Derek's Alpha red stare and he's hypnotized. Those red eyes hold him and it's like they become a machine. He thinks Derek is watching Stiles's face for any sign of pain, but pain is long gone and that just gives Derek the go ahead to give him more, then more again.

Stiles takes it. He takes it all. He's greedy. He wants everything Derek will give him and then some. He wants to give equal back to Derek. To make Derek feel as good as Stiles feels. The hardness inside of him reassures him of that. He knows Derek is feeling it. He can see it in the tense lines of Derek's face, feels it in the lines of Derek's back and shoulders as Stiles claws at the skin there. Stiles is practically leaping off the bed and onto Derek's cock and Derek is loving every second of it.

He wants it to last forever. It doesn't. Derek growls and rolls them, pulling Stiles on top of him. The new angle makes Derek's cock shift inside of him and Stiles is in control now. Derek's still pounding up into him but Stiles gets to control the angle and he leans back, hands on Derek's abs for balance as he fucks himself on Derek's hard cock just right so that he's hitting that spot every time.

Derek growls. His claws press in, just enough to make Stiles shiver but not enough to draw blood, and then Derek's head falls back as he comes inside of Stiles. Stiles doesn't stop. He keeps moving, rolling his hips on the still-hard flesh inside of him. His hand reaches down to touch himself but Derek bats him away. Derek takes him in hand and seconds later Stiles is falling apart, back bowed as his forehead comes down to rest against Derek's chest.

His hips take a while to catch up with the situation. He keeps moving reflexively, even after he's already come and Derek goes soft inside of him. Derek lifts Stiles off of him, making Stiles whimper in a strange sort of want and desperation. He doesn't want to stop but his body's done, even if all of it hasn't caught on to the message.

Derek pulls Stiles down next to him. Their bodies slot together like they were two pieces of the same puzzle. Derek kisses him, soft and sweet, while his hands rub along Stiles's back and sides, gentling him into a pool of boneless goo.

He whines when Derek pulls away, which makes Derek chuckle and promise "I'll be right back." True to his word, he is, with a warm damp cloth to wipe the come off of their skin. Derek drops the washcloth on the floor and then pulls the blankets up around him as he crawls back to press kisses into Stiles's skin.

They doze, switching between light kisses and soft touches and sleepy cuddles. They don't turn the lights off though, not yet.

Stiles has plans for round two.


End file.
